THE  BLACK  EAGLE 
MYSTERY 


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'Mr.   Harland's  body  had  been   found  on  the  sidewalk. 

[Page  8.] 


THE  BLACK  EAGLE 
MYSTERY 


BY 

GERALDINE  BQNNER 

Author  of  "The  Girl  at  Central'* 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
FREDERIC  DORR  STEELE 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1916 


*;■  ".^.■'CopTBrGriT,«10iej  hy  : 

D,  APPLETON  AND  COMPA.NY 

CopWto^T,' ldl«/ Bt  p.- ]^.«  Collier  &'Son,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


FOREWORD 

The  following  story  of  what  has  been  known  as 
"The  Black  Eagle  Mystery"  has  been  compiled  from 
documents  contributed  by  two  persons  thoroughly  con- 
versant with  the  subject.  These  are  Molly  Morgen- 
thau  Babbitts  and  JohnReddy,  whose  position  of  inside 
observers  and  active  participants  makes  it  possible  for 
them  to  give  to  the  public  a  consecutive  and  detailed 
narrative  of  this  most  unusual  case. 


M13687 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Frontispiece 
'Mr.  Harland's  body  had  been  found  on  the  sidewalk" 

FACING  PAOB 

'  'Say/  he  said,  'you're  a  live  one,  aren't  you  ?'  "  .  .  64 
'It  was  locked  or  I  would  have  gone  in"  .  .  .  .  154 
*  'When  did  they  discover  it?'  she  said  in  a  low  voice"     234 


THE  BLACK  EAGLE 
MYSTERY 


CHAPTER  1        :';.  ;     \]''0\4X'' 
MOLLY   TELLS   THE   STORY 

HELLO!"  said  Babbitts  from  the  sheets  of  the 
morning  paper. 
I'll  call  him  Babbitts  to  you  because  that's 
the  name  you'll  remember  him  by — that  is  if  you  know 
about  the  Hesketh  Mystery.  I  generally  call  him 
"Soapy,"  the  name  the  reporters  gave  him,  and  "Him- 
self," which  comes  natural  to  me,  my  mother  being 
Irish.  Maybe  you'll  remember  that  too?  And  he  calls 
me  "Morningdew" — cute,  isn't  it.?  It's  American  for 
my  last  name  Morgenthau— I  was  Molly  Morgenthau 
before  I  was  married. 

In  case  you  don't  know  about  the  Hesketh  Mystery 
I'll  have  to  give  a  few  facts  to  locate  us.  I  was  the 
telephone  girl  in  Longwood,  New  Jersey,  met  Babbitts 
there  when  he  was  a  reporter  for  the  Dispatch — he  is 
yet — and  the  switchboard  lost  one  of  its  brightest  or- 

1 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


naments.  It  was  town  for  us,  an  apartment  on  West 
Ninety-fifth  Street,  near  the  Subway,  five  rooms  on  a 
corner,  furnished  like  a  Belasco  play.  If  you  read  the 
Hesketh  Mystery  you  know  how  I  came  by  that  furni- 
ture, and  if  you  didn't  you'll  have  to  stay  in  ignorance, 
for  I'm  too  anxious  to  get  on  to  stop  and  tell  you. 
iivery  day  at  ten  Isabella  Dabney,  a  light-colored  coon, 
GoiAd3i  in  to  dp  the  heavy  work  and  I  order  her  round, 
throwing  a  bluff  that  I'm  used  to  it  and  hoping  Isa- 
bella isn't  on. 

We've  been  married  over  two  years  and  we're  still — 
Oh,  what's  the  use !  But  we  do  get  on  like  a  house  on 
fire.  I  guess  in  this  vast  metropolis  there's  not  a 
woman  got  anything  on  me  when  it  comes  to  happiness. 
It  certainly  is  wonderful  how  you  bloom  out  and  the 
mean  part  of  you  fades  away  when  someone  thinks 
you're  the  perfect  article,  handsewn,  silk-lined,  made 
in  America. 

And  so  having  taken  this  little  run  round  the  lot, 
I'll  come  back  to  Babbitts  with  his  head  in  the  morn- 
ing paper  saying  "Hello!" 

It  was  a  clear,  crisp  morning  in  January — sixteenth 
of  the  month — and  we  were  at  breakfast.  Himself  had 
just  got  in  from  Cleveland,  where  he'd  been  sent  to 
write  up  the  Cheney  graft  prosecution.  It  took  some 
minutes  to  say  "How  d'ye  do" — ^he'd  been  away  two 

2 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


whole  days — and  after  we'd  concluded  the  ceremonies 
I  lit  into  the  kitchen  to  get  his  breakfast  while  he  sat 
down  at  his  end  of  the  table  and  dived  into  the  papers. 
His  Qgg  was  before  him  and  I  was  setting  the  coffeepot 
down  at  my  end  when  he  gave  that  "Hello,"  loud  and 
startled,  with  the  accent  on  the  "lo." 

"What's  up  now?"  said  I,  looking  over  the  layout 
before  me  to  see  if  I'd  forgotten  anything. 

"HoUings  Harland's  committed  suicide,"  came  out  of 
the  paper. 

"Lord,  has  he!"  said  I.  "Isn't  that  awful?"  I  took 
up  the  cream  pitcher.  **Well,  what  do  you  make  of 
that — the  cream's  frozen." 

"Last  night  at  half-past  six.  Threw  himself  out  of 
his  office  window  on  the  eighteenth  story." 

"Eighteenth  story! — that's  some  fall.  I've  got  to 
take  this  cream  out  with  a  spoon."  I  spooned  up  some, 
all  white  spikes  and  edges,  wondering  if  it  would  chill 
his  coffee  which  he  likes  piping  hot.  "Darling,  do  you 
mind  waiting  a  little  while  I  warm  up  the  cream?" 

"Darn  the  cream!  What  rotten  luck  that  I  was 
away.  I  suppose  they  put  Eddie  Saunders  on  it, 
sounds  like  his  flat-footed  style.  Listen  to  this:  *The 
body  struck  the  pavement  with  a  violent  impact.' 
That's  the  way  he  describes  the  fall  of  a  man  from  the 
top  of  a  skyscraper.     Gee,  why  wasn't  I  here.?" 

3 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


**But,  dearie,"  I  said,  passing  him  his  cup,  "Saunders 
would  have  done  it  if  you  had  been  here.  You  don't  do 
suicides." 

"I  do  this  one.  Rollings  Harland,  one  of  the  big 
corporation  lawyers  of  New  York." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "he's  an  important  person." 

"Rather.    A  top  liner  in  his  profession." 

"Why  did  he  commit  suicide?" 

"Caught  in  the  Copper  Pool,  they  think  here." 

With  the  cup  at  his  lips  he  went  on  reading  over 
its  edge. 

"Does  it  taste  all  right?"  I  asked  and  he  grunted 
something  that  would  have  been  "A  1"  if  it  hadn't 
dropped  into  the  coffee  and  been  drowned. 

My  mind  at  rest  about  him  I  could  give  it  to  the 
morning  sensation. 

"What's  the  Copper  Pool?"  I  asked. 

"A  badly  named  weapon  to  jack  up  prices  and  gouge 
the  public,  young  woman.  Just  like  a  corner  in  hats. 
Suppose  you  could  buy  up  all  the  spring  hats,  you 
could  pretty  near  name  your  own  figure  on  them, 
couldn't  you?" 

"They  do  that  now  without  a  comer,"  I  said  sadly. 

"Well,  they  can't  in  copper.  The  Pool  means  that 
a  bunch  of  financiers  have  put  up  millions  to  comer 
the  copper  market  and  skyrocket  the  price." 

4 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Oh,  he  lost  all  his  money  in  it  and  got  desperate 
and  jumped  out." 

"Um — from  the  hall  window  in  the  Black  Eagle 
Building." 

That  made  it  come  nearer,  the  way  things  do  when 
someone  you  know  is  on  the  ground. 

"Why  that's  where  lola  Barry  works — ^in  Miss 
Whitehall's  office  on  the  seventeenth  floor," 

Babbitts'  eyes  shifted  from  the  paper  to  his  loving 
spouse : 

"That's  so.  I'd  forgotten  it.  Just  one  story  below. 
I  wonder  if  lola  was  there." 

"I  guess  not,  she  goes  home  at  six.  It's  a  good  thing 
she  wasn't.  She's  a  hysterical,  timid  little  rat.  Being 
round  when  a  thing  like  that  happened  would  have  broke 
her  up  more  than  a  spell  of  sickness." 

lola  Barry  was  a  chum  of  mine.  Four  years  ago, 
before  I  was  transferred  to  New  Jersey,  we'd  been  girls 
together  in  the  same  exchange,  and  though  I  didn't  see 
much  of  her  when  I  was  Central  in  Longwood,  since  I'd 
come  back  we'd  met  up  and  renewed  the  old  friendship. 
Having  the  fatahty  happen  so  close  to  her  fanned  my 
interest  considerable  and  I  reached  across  and  picked 
up  one  of  the  papers. 

The  first  thing  my  eye  lit  on  was  a  picture  uf  Hol- 
lings    Harland — a    fine   looking,    smooth-shaven   man. 

5 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


When  I  saw  the  two  long  columns  about  him  I  realized 
what  an  important  person  he  was  and  why  Babbitts  was 
so  mad  he'd  missed  the  detail.  Besides  his  own  picture 
there  was  one  of  his  house — an  elegant  residence  on 
Riverside  Drive,  full  of  pictures  and  statuary,  and  a 
library  he'd  taken  years  to  collect.  Then  there  was  all 
about  him  and  his  life.  He  was  forty-six  years  of  age 
and  though  small  in  stature,  a  fine  physical  specimen, 
never  showing,  no  matter  how  hard  he  worked,  a  sign 
of  nerves  or  weariness.  In  his  boyhood  he'd  come  from 
a  town  up  state,  and  risen  from  the  bottom  to  the  top, 
"cleaving  his  way  up,"  the  paper  had  it,  "by  his  bril- 
liant mind,  indomitable  will  and  tireless  energy."  Three 
years  before,  his  wife  had  died  and  since  then  he'd 
retired  from  society,  devoting  himself  entirely  to  busi- 
ness. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  article  came  a  lot  of  stuff 
about  the  Copper  Pool,  and  the  names  of  the  other  men 
in  it — ^he  seemed  to  be  in  it  too.  There  was  only  one 
of  these  I'd  ever  heard  of — Johnston  Barker — ^which 
didn't  prove  that  I  knew  much,  as  everybody  had  heard 
of  him.  He  was  one  of  the  big  figures  of  finance,  mil- 
lionaire, magnate,  plutocrat,  the  kind  that  one  paper 
calls,  "A  malefactor  of  great  wealth,"  and  its  rival, 
"One  of  our  most  distinguished  and  public-spirited 
citizens."    That  places  him  better  than  a  font  of  type. 

6 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


He  was  in  the  Copper  Pool  up  to  his  neck — the  head  of 
it  as  far  as  I  could  make  out. 

I  had  just  got  through  with  that  part — it  wasn't 
interesting — and  was  reading  what  had  happened  be- 
fore the  suicide  when  Babbitts  spoke: 

"Harland  seems  to  have  had  a  scene  in  his  office 
with  Johnston  Barker  in  the  afternoon." 

I  looked  up  from  my  sheet  and  said  : 

"I've  just  been  reading  about  it  here.  It  tells  how 
Barker  came  to  see  him  and  they  had  some  kind  of 
row." 

"Read  it,"  said  Babbitts.  "I  want  to  get  the  whole 
thing  before  I  go  downtown." 

I  read  out: 

"According  to  Delia  Franks  and  John  Jerome,  Har- 
land's  stenographer  and  head  clerk,  Johnston  Barker 
called  on  Harland  at  half-past  five  that  afternoon. 
The  lawyer's  offices  are  a  suite  of  three  rooms,  one 
opening  from  the  other.  The  last  of  these  rooms  was 
used  as  a  private  office  and  into  this  Harland  conducted 
his  visitor,  closing  the  door.  Miss  Franks  was  in  the 
middle  room  working  at  her  typewriter,  Mr.  Jerome  at 
his  desk  near-by.  While  so  occupied  they  say  they 
heard  the  men  in  the  private  office  begin  talking  loudly. 
The  sound  of  the  typewriter  drowned  the  words  but 
both  Miss  Franks  and  Mr.  Jerome  agree  that  the 
voices  were  those  of  people  in  angry  dispute.     Pres- 

7 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


ently  they  dropped  and  shortly  after  Mr.  Harland 
came  out.  Miss  Franks  says  the  time  was  a  few  min- 
utes after  six,  as  she  had  just  consulted  a  wrist  watch 
she  wore.  Both  clerks  admitting  that  they  were  curi- 
ous, looked  at  Mr.  Harland  and  agree  in  describing 
him  as  pale,  though  otherwise  giving  no  sign  of  anger 
or  disturbance.  He  stopped  at  Jerome's  desk  and  said 
quietly:  *I'll  be  back  in  a  few  minutes.  Don't  go  till 
I  come,'  and  left  the  office. 

"Miss  Franks  and  Mr.  Jerome  remained  where  they 
were.  Miss  Franks  completed  her  work  and  then,  hav- 
ing a  dinner  engagement  with  Mr.  Jerome,  sat  on, 
waiting  for  Mr.  Harland's  return.  In  this  way  a  half 
hour  passed,  the  two  clerks  chatting  together,  impa- 
tient to  be  off.  It  was  a  quarter  to  seven  and  both 
were  wondering  what  was  delaying  their  employer 
when  the  desk  telephone  rang.  Jerome  answered  it 
and  heard  from  the  j  anitor  on  the  street  level  that  Mr. 
Harland's  body  had  been  found  on  the  sidewalk  crushed 
to  a  shapeless  mass.  On  hearing  this.  Miss  Franks, 
uttering  piercing  cries,  rose  and  rushed  into  the  hall 
followed  by  Jerome.  They  rang  frantically  for  the 
elevator  which  didn't  come.  There  are  only  two  cars 
in  the  building,  and  that  afternoon  the  express  had 
broken  and  was  not  running.  Getting  no  answer  to 
his  summons  Jerome  dashed  to  the  hall  window  and 
throwing  it  up  looked  down  on  to  the  street,  which 
even  from  that  height,  he  could  see  was  black  with 
people.  Miss  Franks,  who  when  interviewed  was  still 
hysterical,  stood  by  the  elevators  pressing  the  buttons. 

8 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


In  their  excitement  both  of  them  forgot  Mr.  Barker 
who  when  they  left  was  still  in  the  back  office." 

"Um,"  said  Babbitts.     "Is  that  all  about  Barker.?" 

I  looked  down  the  column. 

"No — there's  some  more  in  another  place.  Here: 
'Johnston  Barker,  whose  interview  with  Harland  is 
supposed  to  have  driven  the  desperate  lawyer  to  sui- 
cide, was  not  found  in  his  house  last  night.  Repeated 
telephone  calls  throughout  the  evening  only  elicited 
the  answer  that  Mr.  Barker  was  not  at  home  and  it 
was  not  known  where  he  was.'  Then  there's  a  lot  about 
him  and  his  connection  with  the  Copper  Pool.  Do  you 
want  to  hear  it?" 

"No,  I  know  all  that.  Pretty  grisly  business.  But 
I  don't  see  why  Barker's  lying  low.  Why  the  devil 
doesn't  he  show  up?" 

"Perhaps  he  doesn't  like  the  notoriety.  Does  it 
say  in  your  paper  too  that  they  couldn't  find  him?" 

"About  the  same.  Looks  to  me  as  if  there  was  a 
nigger  in  the  woodpile  somewhere." 

"Maybe  he  never  expected  the  man  would  kill  himself 
and  he's  prostrated  with  horror  at  what  he's  responsi- 
ble for." 

Babbitts  threw  down  his  paper  with  a  sarcastic  grin: 

**I  guess  it  takes  more  than  that  to  prostrate  John- 

9 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


ston  Barker.  You  don't  rise  from  nothing  to  be  one 
of  the  plutocrats  of  America  and  keep  your  conscience 
in  cotton  wool." 

I  turned  the  page  of  my  paper  and  there,  staring 
at  me,  was  a  picture  of  the  man  we  were  talking  about. 

"Here  he  is,"  I  said,  "on  the  inside  page,"  and  then 
read :  "  *  Johnston  Barker,  whose  interview  with  Rol- 
lings Harland  is  thought  to  have  precipitated  the  sui- 
cide and  who  was  not  to  be  found  last  evening  at  his 
home  or  club.' " 

Babbitts  came  round  and  looked  over  my  shoulder: 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  harder,  more  forceful  mug? 
Look  at  the  nose — ^like  a  beak.  Men  with  noses  like 
that  always  seem  to  me  like  birds  of  prey." 

The  picture  did  have  that  look.  The  face  was  thin, 
one  of  those  narrow,  lean  ones  with  a  few  deep  lines 
like  folds  in  the  skin.  The  nose  was,  as  Babbitts  said, 
a  regular  beak,  like  a  curved  scimitar,  big  and  hooked. 
A  sort  of  military-looking,  white  moustache  hid  the 
mouth,  and  the  eyes  behind  glasses  were  keen  and  dark, 
I  guess  you'd  have  called  it  quite  a  handsome  face,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  grim,  hard  expression — ^like  it 
belonged  to  some  sort  of  fighter  who  wouldn't  give  you 
any  mercy  if  you  stood  in  his  way. 

"It  takes  a  feller  like  that  to  make  millions  in  these 
trust-busting  days,"  said  Babbitts. 

10 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"He  looks  as  if  he  could  corner  copper  and  anything 
else  that  took  his  fancy,"  I  answered. 

"If  he's  really  flown  the  coop  there'll  be  the  devil 
to  pay  in  Wall  Street."  He  gave  my  shoulder  a  pat. 
"Well,  we'll  see  today  and  the  sooner  I  get  on  the  scene 
of  action  the  sooner  I'll  know.  Good-by,  my  Morning- 
dew. — Kiss  me  and  speed  me  on  my  perilous  way." 

After  he'd  gone  I  tidied  up  the  place,  had  the  morn- 
ing powwow  with  Isabella,  and  then  drifted  into  the 
parlor.  The  sun  was  slanting  bright  through  the  win- 
dows and  as  I  stood  looking  out  at  the  thin  covering 
of  ice,  glittering  here  and  there  on  the  roofs — there'd 
been  rain  before  the  frost — I  got  the  idea  I  ought  to  go 
down  and  see  lola.  She  was  a  frail,  high-strung  little 
body  and  what  had  happened  last  night  in  the  Black 
Eagle  Building  would  put  a  crimp  in  her  nerves  for 
days  to  come,  especially  as  just  now  she  had  worries 
of  her  own.  Clara,  her  sister  with  whom  she  lived,  had 
gone  into  the  hair  business — not  selling  it,  brushing  it 
on  ladies'  heads — and  hadn't  done  well,  so  lola  was  the 
main  support  of  the  two  of  them.  Three  years  ago 
she'd  left  the  telephone  company  to  better  herself, 
studying  typing  and  stenography,  and  at  first  she'd 
had  a  hard  time,  getting  into  offices  where  the  men  were 
so  fierce  they  scared  her  so  she  couldn't  work,  or  so 
affectionate  they  scared  her  so  she  resigned  her  job. 

11 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Then  at  last  she  landed  a  good  place  at  Miss  White- 
hall's— Carol  Whitehall,  who  had  a  real-estate  scheme 
— villas  and  cottages  out  in  New  Jersey. 

Now  while  you  think  of  me  in  my  blue  serge  suit  and 
squirrel  furs,  with  a  red  wing  in  my  hat  and  a  bunch  of 
cherries  pinned  on  my  neckpiece,  flashing  under  the 
city  in  the  subway,  I'll  tell  you  about  Carol  Whitehall. 
She's  important  in  this  story — I  guess  you'd  call  her 
the  heroine — for  though  the  capital  "I"s  are  thick  in 
it,  you've  got  to  see  that  letter  as  nothing  more  than 
a  hand  holding  a  pen. 

The  first  I  heard  of  Miss  Whitehall  was  nearly  two 
years  back  from  the  Cressets,  friends  of  mine  who  live 
on  a  farm  out  Longwood  way  where  I  was  once  Central. 
She  and  her  mother — a  widow  lady — came  there  from 
somewhere  in  the  Middle  West  and  bought  the  Azalea 
Woods  Farm,  a  fine  rich  stretch  of  land,  back  in  the 
hills  behind  Azalea  village.  They  were  going  to  run  it 
themselves,  having,  the  gossip  said,  independent  means 
and  liking  the  simple  life.  The  neighbors,  high  and 
low,  soon  got  acquainted  with  them  and  found  them 
nice  genteel  ladies,  the  mother  very  quiet  and  dignified, 
but  Miss  Carol  a  live  wire  and  as  handsome  as  a  pic- 
ture. 

They'd  been  in  the  place  about  a  year  when  the  rail- 
road threw  out  a  branch  that  crossed  over  the  hills 

12 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


near  their  land.  This  increased  its  value  immensely 
and  folks  were  wondering  if  they'd  sell  out — they  had 
several  offers — when  it  was  announced  that  they  were 
going  to  start  a  villa  site  company  to  be  called  the 
Azalea  Woods  Estates.  In  the  Autumn  when  I  was 
down  at  the  Cressets — Soapy  and  I  go  there  for  Sun- 
days sometimes — the  Cresset  boys  had  been  over  in 
their  new  Ford  car,  and  said  what  were  once  open 
fields  were  all  laid  out  in  roads  with  little  spindly  trees 
planted  along  the  edges.  There  was  a  swell  station, 
white  with  a  corrugated  red  roof,  and  several  houses 
up,  some  stucco  like  the  station  and  others  low  and 
squatty  in  the  bungalow  style. 

It  was  a  big  undertaking  and  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  talk,  no  one  supposing  the  Whitehalls  had  money 
enough  to  break  out  in  such  a  roomy  way,  but  when  it 
came  down  to  brass  tacks,  nobody  had  any  real  informa- 
tion about  them.  For  all  Longwood  and  Azalea  knew 
they  might  have  been  cutting  off  coupons  ever  since 
they  came. 

As  soon  as  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  started  they 
moved  to  town.  lola  told  me  they  had  a  nice  little  flat 
on  the  East  Side  and  the  offices  were  the  swellest  she'd 
ever  been  employed  in.  I'd  never  been  in  them,  though 
I  sometimes  went  to  the  Black  Eagle  Building  and  took 
lola  out  to  lunch.     I  didn't  like  to  go  up,  having  no 

13 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


business  there,  and  used  to  telephone  her  in  the  morning 
and  make  the  date,  then  hang  round  the  entrance  hall 
till  she  came  down. 

Besides  Miss  Whitehall  and  lola  there  was  a  man- 
aging clerk,  Anthony  Ford.  I'd  never  seen  him  no 
more  than  I  had  Miss  Whitehall,  but  I'd  heard  a  lot 
about  him.  After  lola'd  told  me  what  a  good-looker 
he  was  and  how  he'd  come  swinging  in  in  the  morning, 
always  jolly  and  full  of  compliments,  I  got  a  hunch 
that  she  was  getting  too  interested  in  him.  She  said 
she  wasn't — did  you  ever  know  a  girl  who  didn't? — and 
when  I  asked  her  point  blank,  ruffled  up  like  a  wet  hen 
and  snapped  out: 

"Molly  Babbitts,  ain't  I  been  in  business  long  enough 
to  know  I  got  to  keep  my  heart  locked  up  in  the  office 
safe.?" 

And  I  couldn't  help  answering: 

"Well,  don't  give  away  the  combination  till  you're 
good  and  sure  it's  the  right  man  that's  asking  for  it." 


CHAPTER  n 

MOLLY  TELLS  THE  STORY 

THE  Black  Eagle  Building  is  part-way  down- 
town— not  one  of  the  skyscrapers  that  crowd 
together  on  the  tip  of  the  Island's  tongue  and 
not  one  of  the  advance  guard  squeezing  in  among  the 
mansions  of  the  rich,  darkening  their  windows  and 
spoiling  their  chimney  draughts — poor,  suffering  dears ! 
As  I  came  up  the  subway  stairs  I  could  see  it  bulking 
up  above  the  roofs,  a  long  narrow  shape,  with  its  win- 
dows shining  in  the  sun.  It  stood  on  a  corner  present- 
ing a  great  slab  of  wall  to  the  side  street  and  its  front 
to  Broadway.  There  were  two  entrances,  the  main  one 
— with  an  eagle  in  a  niche  over  the  door — on  Broadway, 
and  a  smaller  one  on  the  side  street.  There  is  only 
one  other  very  high  building  near  there — the  Massasoit 
— facing  on  Fifth  Avenue,  its  back  soaring  above  the 
small  houses  that  look  like  a  line  of  children's  toys. 

My  way  was  along  the  side  street,  chilled  by  the 
shadow  of  the  building,  and  as  I  passed  the  small  en- 
trance I  stopped  and  looked  up.  The  wall  rose  like 
a  rampart,  story  over  story,  the  windows  as  similar 

15 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  even  as  cells  in  a  honeycomb.  Way  up,  the  cornice 
cut  the  blue  with  its  dark  line.  It  was  from  that  height 
the  suicide  had  jumped.  I  thought  of  him  there,  stand- 
ing on  the  window  ledge,  making  ready  to  leap.  Ugh ! 
it  was  too  horrible !  I  shuddered  and  walked  on,  press- 
ing my  chin  into  my  fur  and  putting  the  picture  out  of 
my  mind. 

When  I  turned  the  comer  into  Broadway  it  was 
brighter.  The  sun  was  shining  on  the  outspread  wings 
of  the  eagle  in  his  niche  and  turning  the  icicles  that 
hung  from  the  window  ledges  into  golden  fringes.  Near 
the  entrance  a  man  in  a  checked  jumper  and  peaked 
cap  was  breaking  away  the  bits  of  ice  that  stuck  to 
the  sidewalk  with  a  long-handled  thing  like  a  spade. 
And  all  about  were  people,  queer,  mangy-looking  men 
and  some  women,  standing  staring  at  the  pavement  and 
then  craning  their  necks  and  squinting  up  through  the 
sunlight  at  the  top  of  the  building. 

I  sized  up  the  man  in  the  jumper  as  a  janitor,  and 
for  all  he  seemed  so  busy,  you  could  see  he  was  really 
hanging  round  for  an  excuse  to  talk.  He'd  pick  at  a 
tiny  piece  of  ice  and  skate  it  over  careful  into  the 
gutter  when  in  ordinary  times  he'd  have  let  it  lie  there, 
a  menace  to  the  public's  bones.  Every  now  and  then 
one  of  the  people  standing  round  would  ask  him  a 
question  and  he'd  stop  in  his  scraping  and  try  to  look 

16 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


weary  while  he  was  just  bursting  to  go  all  over  it 
again. 

"Where  did  he  fall?'*  asked  a  chap  in  a  reach-me- 
down  overcoat,  fringy  at  the  cuffs,  "there?"  and  pointed 
into  the  middle  of  the  street.  The  janitor  gave  him 
a  scornful  glance,  let  go  his  hoe  and  spat  on  his  hand. 
He  spoke  with  a  brogue : 

"No,  not  there.  Nor  there  neither,"  he  pointed  some 
distance  down  Broadway.  "But  there,"  and  that  time 
he  struck  on  the  edge  of  the  curb  with  his  hoe. 

A  girl  who  was  passing  slowed  up,  her  face  all  puck- 
ered with  horror: 

"Did  he  come  down  with  a  crash?" 

The  janitor  drew  himself  up,  raised  his  eyebrows  and 
looked  at  her  from  under  his  eyelids  like  she  was  a 
worm: 

"Is  fallin'  from  the  top  of  the  buildin'  like  steppin' 
from  a  limousine  on  to  a  feather  bed?"  He  turned 
wearily  to  his  hoe  and  spoke  to  it  as  if  it  was  the  only 
thing  in  sight  that  had  any  sense.  "Crash!  What'll 
they  be  after  askin'  next?"  Then  he  suddenly  got  quite 
excited,  raised  his  voice  and  stuck  out  his  chin  at  the 
girl.  "Why,  the  glasses  off  his  nose  was  nearly  to  the 
next  corner.  Didn't  I  meself  find  the  mounts  of  them 
six  feet  from  his  body?  And  not  a  bit  of  glass  left. 
There's  where  I  got  them — in  the  mud,"  he  pointed  out 

17 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


into  the  street  and  everyone  looked  fixedly  at  the  place. 
"Crash — and  the  pore  corpse  no  more  than  a  sack  of 
bones." 

An  old  man  with  a  white  beard  who'd  been  standing 
on  the  curb  examining  the  street  as  if  he  expected  to 
find  a  treasure  there  said:  i 

"Struck  on  his  head,  eh?" 

"He  did,"  said  the  janitor  in  a  loud  voice.  "An'  if 
you'd  listen  to  me  you'd  have  known  it  without  me 
tellin'  yer." 

The  girl,  who  was  sort  of  peeved  at  the  way  he 
answered  her,  spoke  up: 

"You  never  told  it  at  all !  You  only  spoke  about  the 
glasses." 

The  janitor  gave  her  a  look  sort  of  enduring  and 
patient  as  if,  she  being  a  woman,  he'd  got  to  treat  her 
gentle  even  if  she  was  a  fool. 

"Say,  young  lady,"  says  he,  "I'm  not  goin'  to  bandy 
words  with  you.  Have  it  any  way  you  like.  /  was 
here,  /  seen  it,  I  seen  the  corpse  lyin'  all  bunched  up, 
I  seen  the  crowd,  I  seen  the  amberlanch,  and  I  seen  Mr. 
Harland's  clerk  come  down  and  identify  the  body — but 
maybe  I  don't  know.  Take  it  or  leave  it — any  way  you 
choose." 

The  people  snickered  and  looked  at  the  girl,  who  got 
red  and  walked  off  muttering.     The  janitor  went  back 

18 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


to  picking  at  a  piece  of  ice  a^  big  as  a  half  dollar, 
watching  out  for  the  next  one  to  come  along, 

I  hadn't  phoned  to  lola  this  time  and  it  being  an 
unusual  occasion  I  decided  to  go  up.  There  were  men 
in  the  entrance  hall  talking  together  in  groups  and 
from  every  group  I  could  hear  the  name  of  Harland 
coming  in  low  tones.  In  the  elevator  when  the  other 
passengers  had  got  out,  the  boy  looked  at  me  and 
said: 

"Tough  what  happened  here  last  night,  ain't  it?" 

I  agreed  with  him  and  as  we  shot  up  with  the  floors 
flashing  between  the  iron  grills,  he  had  his  little  say 
about  it.  One  of  the  things  that  seemed  to  trouble  him 
most  was  that  he  hadn't  been  there,  as  the  express 
elevator  which  he  ran  was  broken  early  in  the  afternoon 
and  he'd  gone  home  before  the  event. 

The  corridor  of  the  seventeenth  floor  was  a  bare, 
clean  place,  all  shining  stone,  not  a  bit  of  wood  about 
it  but  the  doors.  At  one  end  was  a  window  looking 
out  on  the  Broadway  side  and  near  it  the  stairs  went 
down,  concrete  with  a  metal  balustrade.  I'd  asked  for 
Miss  Whitehall's  office  and  as  I  got  out  of  the  car  the 
boy  had  said,  "First  door  to  your  left,  Azalea  Woods 
Estates."  There  were  two  doors  on  each  side,  the  upper 
halves  ground  glass  with  gold  lettering.  Those  to  the 
right  had  "The  Hudson  Electrical  Company"  on  them 

19 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  those  to  the  left  "Azalea  Woods  Estates"  with 
under  that  "Anthony  Ford,  Manager." 

As  I  walked  toward  the  first  of  these  I  could  see  out 
of  the  window  the  great  back  of  the  Massasoit  Building, 
tan  color  against  the  bright  blue  of  the  sky.  Pausing 
before  I  rang  the  bell,  I  leaned  against  the  window 
ledge  and  spied  down.  The  street  looked  like  a  small, 
narrow  gully,  dotted  with  tiny  black  figures,  and  the 
houses  that  fronted  on  it,  extending  back  to  the  Massa- 
soit, no  bigger  than  match  boxes. 

I  pressed  the  bell  and  as  I  waited  turned  and  looked 
down  the  corridor,  stretching  away  in  its  shiny  scoured 
cleanness  between  the  shut  doors  of  offices.  Just  beyond 
the  elevator  shafts  there  was  a  branch  hall  and  along 
the  polished  floor  I  could  see  the  white,  glassy  reflec- 
tion of  another  window.  That  was  on  the  side  street, 
one  of  those  I  had  looked  up  at,  and  as  I  was  thinking 
that,  the  door  opened  slowly  and  lola  peered  out,  with 
her  eyes  big  and  scared  and  a  sandwich  in  her  hand. 

"Good  gracious,  Molly !"  she  cried.  "I'm  so  glad  to 
see  you.    Come  in." 

I  hesitated,  almost  whispering: 

"Will  Miss  Whitehall  mind.?" 

"She's  not  here.  I  had  a  phone  this  morning  to 
say  »he  was  sick  and  wouldn't  be  down,  and  Mr.  Ford's 
gone  out  to  lunch."     She  took  me  by  the  hand  and 

20 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


pulled  me  in,  shutting  the  door.  "Jerusalem,  but  it's 
good  to  see  you.  I'm  that  lonesome  sitting  here  I'm 
ready  to  cry." 

She  didn't  look  very  chipper.  Usually  she's  a  pretty 
girl,  the  slim,  baby-eyed,  delicate  kind,  with  a  dash  of 
powder  on  the  nose  and  a  touch  of  red  on  the  lips  to 
help  out.  But  today  she  looked  sort  of  peaked  and 
shriveled  up,  the  way  those  frail  little  wisps  of  girls  do 
at  the  least  jar. 

"Isn't  it  awful?"  she  said  as  soon  as  she'd  got  me  in 
— "Just  the  floor  above  us!" 

I  didn't  want  her  to  talk  about  it,  but  she  was  like 
the  janitor — only  a  gag  would  stop  her.  So  I  let  her 
run  on  while  I  looked  round  and  took  in  the  place. 

It  was  a  fine,  large  room,  two  windows  in  the  front 
and  two  more  on  the  sides.  The  furniture  was  massive 
and  rich-looking  and  the  rugs  on  the  floor  as  soft  to 
your  foot  as  the  turf  in  the  Park.  On  the  walls  were 
blue  and  white  maps,  criss-crossed  with  lines,  and  pic- 
tures of  houses,  in  different  styles.  But  the  thing 
that  got  me  was  a  little  model  of  a  cottage  on  a  table 
by  the  window.  It  was  the  cutest  thing  you  ever  saw — 
all  complete  even  to  the  blinds  in  the  windows  and  the 
awning  over  the  piazza.  I  was  looking  at  it  when  lola, 
having  got  away  with  the  sandwich,  said: 

"Come  on  in  to  Mr.  Ford's  office  while  I  finish  my 

«1 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


lunch.^  I  got  to  get  through  with  it  before  he  comes 
back.'' 

I  followed  her  into  the  next  room,  nearly  as  large  as 
the  one  we'd  been  in,  with  a  wide  window  and  in  the 
center  a  big  roll-top  desk.  On  the  edge  of  this  stood  a 
pasteboard  box,  with  some  crumpled  wax  paper  in  it 
and  an  orange.  lola  sat  down  in  the  swivel  chair  and 
picking  up  the  orange  began  to  peel  it. 

"I  hardly  ever  do  this,"  she  explained,  "but  I  thought 
Miss  Whitehall  wouldn't  mind  today  as  I  felt  so  mean 
I  couldn't  face  going  out  to  lunch.  And  then  it  was 
all  right  as  she  won't  be  down  and  I'll  have  it  all  cleared 
off  before  Mr.  Ford  comes  back." 

"Would  he  be  mad?" 

You  ought  to  have  seen  the  look  she  gave  me. 

"Mad — Tony  Ford?  It's  easy  seen  you  don't  know 
him.  She  wouldn't  say  anything  either.  She's  awful 
considerate.  But  she's  so  sort  of  grand  and  dignified 
you  don't  like  to  ask  favors  off  her." 

^^Was  she  here  when  it  happened  last  night?" 

*'I  don't  know,  but  I  guess  not.  She  generally  leaves 
a  little  before  six.  Thanks  be  to  goodness,  she  told 
me  I  could  go  home  early  yesterday.  I  was  out  of  the 
building  by  half -past  five."  She  broke  the  orange  apart 
and  held  out  a  piece.  "Have  a  quarter?"  I  shook  my 
head  and  she  went  on.     "We're  all  out  of  here  soon 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


after  six.  Tony  Ford  generally  stays  last  and  shuts 
up.     Did  you  see  all  the  papers  this  morning?" 

"Most  of  them.    Why?" 

"I  was  wondering  if  any  of  them  knew  that  Mr.  Har- 
land  and  Mr.  Barker  were  both  in  here  yesterday  after- 
noon." 

"It  wasn't  in  any  of  the  papers  I  saw." 

"Well,  they  were — the  two  of  them.  And  I  didn't 
know  but  what  the  reporters,  nosing  round  for  any- 
thing the  way  they  do,  mightn't  have  heard  it.  Not 
that  there  was  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  about  it. 
She  knew  them  both.  Mr.  Harland's  been  in  here  a 
few  times  and  Mr.  Barker  often." 

"Why  did  he  come?"  I  said,  surprised,  for  lola  had 
never  told  me  they'd  the  magnate  for  a  customer. 

"Business,"  she  looked  at  me  over  the  orange  that 
she  was  sucking,  her  eyes  sort  of  intent  and  curious. 
''Didn't  I  tell  you  that?  He  was  going  to  buy  a  piece 
of  land  in  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  and  build  a  house 
for  his  niece." 

"Seems  to  me,"  I  said,  "that  the  Dress'll  be  interested 
to  know  about  those  two  visits." 

"Well,  if  any  reporters  come  snooping  round  here 
Tony  Ford  told  me  to  refer  them  to  him  or  Miss  White- 
hall, and  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"What  time  was  Mr.  Harland  here?" 


The  Blach  Eagle  Mystery 


"A  little  after  four.  He  and  Miss  Whitehall  went 
into  the  private  office  and  had  a  talk.  And  I'll  bet  a 
new  hat  that  he  hadn't  no  more  idea  of  suicide  then 
than  you  have  now,  sitting  there  before  me.  When 
he  came  out  he  was  all  smiles,  just  as  natural  and  happy 
as  if  he  was  going  home  to  a  chicken  dinner  And  a  show 
afterward." 

**AU  the  papers  think  it  was  what  Mr.  Barker  said 
that  drove  him  to  it." 

"And  they're  right  for  a  change — not  that  I'm  saying 
anything  against  the  press  with  your  husband  in  it. 
But  it  does  make  more  mistakes  than  any  printed  mat- 
ter /  ever  read,  except  the  cooking  receipts  on  the 
outside  of  patent  foods.  It  was  Barker  that  put  the 
crimp  in  /lim." 

*'Then  Barker  came  in  afterward?" 

*'Yes,  just  before  I  left.  And  he  and  she  went  into 
the  private  office.'* 

I  turned  in  my  chair  and  looked  through  the  open 
doorway  into  the  third  room  of  the  suite. 

*'Is  that  the  private  office?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  says  lola  with  a  giggle,  "that's  its  society 
name,  but  Mr.  Ford  calls  it  the  Surgery." 

Before  I  could  ask  her  why  Mr.  Ford  called  it  that, 
the  bell  rang  and  she  jumped  up,  squashing  the  orange 
peel  and  bits  of  paper  back  in  the  box. 

^4 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Here,  you  go  and  answer  it,"  I  said,  "I'll  hide  this." 
She  went  into  the  front  office  and  as  I  pushed  the  box 
out  of  sight  on  a  shelf  I  could  hear  her  talking  to  a 
man  at  the  door.  The  conversation  made  me  stand 
still  listening. 

The  man's  voice  asked  for  Miss  Whitehall,  lola 
answering  that  she  wasn't  there. 

"Where  is  she?"  said  the  man,  gruff  and  abrupt  it 
seemed  to  me. 

"In  her  own  home-r-she  hasn't  come  down  today  at 
aU." 

"Is  she  coming  later?" 

"No,  she's  sick  in  bed." 

There  was  a  slight  pause  and  then  he  said: 

**Well,  I  got  to  see  her.  I've  notes  here  that  are 
overdue  and  the  endorsee's  dead." 

"Endorsee?"  came  lola's  little  pipe,  fuU  of  troubled 
surprise,  "who's  he?" 

"Hollings  Harland  who  killed  himself  last  night. 
What's  her  address?" 

I  could  hear  lola  giving  it  and  the  man  muttering  it 
over.  Then  there  was  a  gruff  "Good  morning"  and 
the  door  snapped  shut. 

lola  came  back,  her  eyes  big,  her  expression  won- 
dering. 

"What  do  you  suppose  that  means  ?"  she  said. 

S5 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I  didn't  know  exactly  myself  but — ^notes,  endorsee 
dead! — it  had  a  bad  sound.  As  lola  reached  down 
her  lunch  box  and  tied  it  up,  talking  uneasily  about 
the  man  and  what  he'd  wanted,  I  remembered  the  gossip 
in  New  Jersey  when  Miss  Whitehall  started  her  land 
scheme.  There'd  been  rumors  then  that  maybe  she 
was  backed,  and  if  HoUings  Harland  had  been  behind 
it — My  goodness !  you  couldn't  tell  what  might  happen. 
But  I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything  discouraging  to 
lola,  so  to  change  the  subject  I  moved  to  the  door  of 
the  private  office  and  looked  in. 

"Why  does  Mr.  Ford  call  this  the  surgery?" 

At  the  mention  of  the  managing  clerk  lola  brightened 
up  and  said  with  a  smirk : 

''Because  it's  where  Miss  Whitehall  chloroforms  her 
clients  with  her  beauty  and  performs  the  operation 
of  separating  them  from  their  money.  He's  always 
saying  cute  things  like  that." 

We  stood  in  the  doorway  and  looked  in.  It  was  a 
smaller  room  than  the  others,  but  furnished  just  as 
richly,  with  a  mahogany  center  table,  big  leather-cov- 
ered armchairs  and  photographs  of  foreign  views  on  the 
walls.  In  one  corner  was  an  elegant,  gold-embossed 
screen,  that,  when  I  spied  behind  it,  I  saw  hid  a  wash- 
stand.  It  was  the  last  room  of  the  suite  and  had  only 
one  door  that  led  into  the  office  we'd  been  sitting  in. 

^6 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


In  the  outside  wall  was  a  window  from  which  you  could 
see  way  over  the  city — a  wonderful  view. 

I  walked  to  it  and  looked  out.  Over  the  roofs  and 
chimneys  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Hudson,  a  silvery 
gleam,  and  the  Hoboken  hills  beyond.  Pressing  my 
forehead  against  the  glass  I  glimpsed  down  the  sheer 
drop  of  the  walls  to  the  roof  of  a  church — a  flat,  black 
oblong  with  a  squatty  dome  at  one  end — squeezed  as 
close  as  it  could  get  against  the  lower  stories.  Back 
of  that  were  old  houses,  dwellings  that  would  soon  be 
swept  away,  the  yards  behind  them  narrow  strips  with 
the  separating  fences  as  small  as  lines  made  by  a  pencil. 

I  was  so  interested  that  for  a  moment  I  forgot  lola, 
but  she  brought  me  back  with  a  jerk. 

"It  was  in  the  room  above  this  that  Mr.  Harland  was 
sitting  with  Mr.  Barker,  before  it  happened." 

"You  don't  say,"  I  answered.     "Is  it  like  this?" 

^'Exactly  the  same.  I've  seen  it — one  day  when 
the  boss  was  away  and  I  went  up  with  Delia  Franks. 
They  were  in  there  just  as  we  are  in  here  and  then  he 
went  out  this  way — " 

The  door  had  been  partly  pushed  to  and  she  started 
to  illustrate  how  he  had  left  the  room,  brushing  round 
its  edge.  Something  caught  her,  there  was  a  sound  of 
ripping  and  she  stopped,  clapping  her  hand  on  her 
back : 

21 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"There  go  my  pleats — Ding  it!"  she  craned  round 
over  her  shoulder  trying  to  see  the  back  of  her  skirt. 
"What's  got  me  ?  Oh,  the  key.  Well  what  do  you  make 
of  that — caught  me  like  a  hook." 

She  drew  her  dress  off  the  key,  which  fell  out  of  the 
lock  on  to  the  floor. 

"It's  only  ripped,"  I  said  consolingly.  "I  can  pin  it 
for  you." 

*'Well,  there's  always  something  to  be  thankful  for," 
she  said,  as  I  pinned  her  up.  "But  it's  an  unlucky  day, 
I  can  feel  that.  That  key's  never  before  been  on  the 
inside  of  the  door."  She  bent  and  picked  it  up.  "I'd 
like  to  know  what  smart  Aleck  changed  it." 

"Probably  the  scrubwoman." 

"I  guess  so,"  she  grumbled,  "put  it  on  the  wrong 
side  where  it  waited  patiently  and  then  got  its  revenge 
on  me.     Such  is  life  among  the  lowly." 

That  night  Babbitts  was  late  for  dinner.  I  expected 
it  but  Isabella,  who  says  she  never  lived  out  except  in 
families  where  the  husband  comes  home  at  six  like  a 
Christian,  was  getting  restive  about  the  chops,  when 
he  finally  showed  up,  tired  as  a  dog. 

"My  Lord!"  he  said,  as  I  helped  him  off  with  his 
coat.    "What  a  day !" 

**Because  of  the  suicide  ?" 

**Outcome  of  the  suicide  and  aU  the  rest  of  it.    The 

28 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


wildest  panic  on  the  Street.  The  Copper  Pool's  gone 
smash.  Let's  have  something  to  eat,  I've  had  no  lunch 
and  I'm  famished." 

When  we  were  at  table  and  the  edge  off  his  hunger 
he  told  me  more : 

"It  began  this  morning,  and  this  afternoon  when 
there  was  still  no  trace  of  Barker — Gee  whizz !  it  was  an 
avalanche." 

"You  mean  he's  gone?    Disappeared?" 

"That's  the  way  it  looks.  They  had  their  suspicions 
when  they  couldn't  find  him  last  night.  And  today — i 
nobody  knows  a  thing  about  him  at  his  house  or  his 
office,  can't  account  for  it,  don't  understand.  Then  we 
turned  up  something  that  looked  like  a  clincher.  One 
of  his  motors,  a  limousine,  and  his  chauffeur,  fellow 
called  Heney,  have  disappeared  too." 

"What  do  they  say  about  that  at  the  house.?" 

"Same  thing — ^know  nothing.  Nobody  was  in  the 
garage  from  six  to  half-past  eight.  When  the  other 
men  who  sleep  there  came  back  Heney  and  the  limousine 
were  gone." 

"Did  anyone  see  Barker  at  the  Black  Eagle  Build- 
ing?" 

"No — that's  the  strongest  proof  that  he's  decamped. 
You'd  suppose  with  such  a  scene  as  that  going  on  he'd 
have  shown  up.    But  not  a  soul's  been  found  who  saw 

29 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


him  there.  If  he  wanted  to  slip  out  quietly  he  could 
easily  have  done  it.  Jerome  and  the  Franks  girl  say 
they  were  so  paralyzed  they  never  gave  him  another 
thought  and  he  could  have  passed  behind  them,  as  they 
stood  in  the  corridor,  and  gone  down  by  the  side  stairs. 
There's  another  flight  round  the  corner  on  the  branch 
hall.  The  street  on  that  side  was  deserted — the  boys 
say  every  human  being  in  the  neighborhood  was  round 
on  the  Broadway  front." 

"But,  but,"  I  stammered,  for  I  couldn't  understand 
it  all,  what's  he  done.''  What's  the  reason  for  his  go- 
ing?" 

"Reason!"  said  Babbitts  with  a  snort.  "Believe  me, 
there's  reason  enough.  Somebody's  welched  on  the 
Copper  Pool  and  they  think  it's  he  and  that  he's  dis- 
appeared with  twenty  million." 

"Twenty  million !    How  could  he?" 

"By  selling  out  on  the  rest  of  the  crowd.  They  think 
he's  been  selling  copper  to  the  Pool  itself  of  which 
he  was  the  head." 

"Was  that  what  he  and  Mr.  Harland  were  supposed 
to  be  quarreling  about  yesterday  afternoon?" 

"Yes.  The  idea  now  is  that  Harland,  who  was  one 
of  the  Copper  crowd,  suspected  and  accused  him,  that 
there  was  a  fierce  interview  in  the  course  of  which  the 
lawyer  realized  he  was  beaten  and  ruined." 

30 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Good  gracious !"  I  said.  "What  are  they  going  to 
do  with  him?" 

"If  he  doesn't  show  up,  go  after  him.  A  group  of 
ruined  financiers  doesn't  kneel  down  and  pray  for  their 
money  to  come  back.  And  they've  got  a  man  looking 
after  their  interests  who's  a  lightning  striker.  A  friend 
of  yours.     Guess  who?" 

"Wilbur  Whitney!"  I  crowed. 

"The  same,"  said  Babbitts. 

"Then,"  I  cried,  "they'll  have  him  and  the  twenty 
millions  served  up  on  a  salver  before  the  week's  out." 

If  you  don't  know  the  story  of  the  Hesketh  Mystery 
you  don't  know  who  Wilbur  Whitney  is,  so  I'll  tell  you 
here.  He's  one  of  the  biggest  lawyers  in  New  York 
and  one  of  the  biggest  men  anywhere.  You'd  as  soon 
suspect  that  an  insignificant  atom  like  me  would  know 
a  man  like  him  as  that  the  palace  ashman  would  know 
the  Czar  of  Russia,  but  I  do,  well — I  guess  I'm  not 
stretching  things  if  I  say  we're  friends.  The  Babbitts 
and  the  Whitneys  don't  exchange  calls,  but  they  think 
a  lot  of  each  other  just  the  same.  And  it's  my  doing, 
little  Molly's — yes,  sir,  the  ex-telephone  girl.  In  the 
Hesketh  case  I  did  a  job  for  Mr.  Whitney  that  brought 
us  together,  and  ever  since  it's  been  kindnesses  from 
the  big  house  off  Fifth  Avenue,  to  the  little  flat  on 
Ninety-fifth  Street.    He  doesn't  forget — the  real  eight- 

31 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


een-carat  people  never  do — and  he'll  send  me  tickets 
for  the  opera  one  night  and  tip  off  Soapy  to  a  bit  of 
news  so  he'll  get  a  scoop  the  week  after.  Oh,  he's  just 
grand! 

And  right  in  his  office — Mr.  Whitney's  assistant  this 
year — is  one  of  our  realest,  truest,  dearest  pals,  Jack 
Reddy.  If  this  is  your  first  acquaintance  with  me 
you  don't  know  much  about  him  and  I'll  have  to  give 
you  a  little  sketch  of  him  for  he's  got  a  lot  to  do  with 
this  story. 

To  look  at  he's  just  all  right,  brown  with  light-col- 
ored hair  and  gray  eyes,  over  six  feet  and  not  an  ounce 
of  fat  on  him.  It's  not  because  he's  my  friend  that 
I'm  saying  all  this,  everybody  agrees  on  it.  He's  thirty 
years  old  now  and  not  married.  That's  because  of  a 
tragedy  in  his  life:  the  girl  he  loved  was  killed  nearly 
three  years  ago.  It's  a  long  story — I  can't  stop  to 
tell  it  to  you — but  it  broke  him  up  something  dreadful, 
though  I  and  Babbitts  and  all  of  us  know  it  was  better 
that  he  shouldn't  have  married  her.  Ever  since  I've 
been  hoping  he'd  meet  up  with  his  real  affinity,  some- 
one who'd  be  the  right  woman  for  him.  But  he  hasn't 
so  far.  Babbitts  says  the  girl  isn't  born  I'd  think  good 
enough — but  I  don't  know.  I  guess  in  the  ninety  mil- 
lions of  people  we've  got  scattered  round  this  vast  re- 
public there's  a  lady  that'll  fill  the  bill. 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Once  I  had  a  crush  on  him — Babbitts  teases  me  about 
it  now — but  it  all  faded  away  when  Himself  came  along 
with  his  curly  blond  hair  and  his  dear,  rosy,  innocent 
face.  But  Jack  Reddy's  still  a  sort  of  hero  to  me.  He 
showed  up  so  fine  in  those  old  dark  days  and  he's  showed 
up  fine  ever  since — don't  drop  off  his  pedestal  and  have 
to  be  boosted  back.  I've  put  several  people  on  pedestals 
and  seen  them  so  unsteady  it  made  me  nervous,  but  he's 
riveted  on. 

He's  got  a  country  place  out  in  New  Jersey — ^Fire- 
hill — ^where  he  used  to  live.  But  since  he's  been  with 
Mr.  Whitney  he  stays  in  town,  only  going  out  there  in 
summer.  His  apartment's  down  near  Gramercy  Park 
— an  elegant  place — where  his  two  old  servants,  David 
and  Joanna  Gilsey,  keep  house  for  him  and  treat  him 
like  he  was  their  only  son.  Babbitts  and  I  go  there 
often,  and  Gee,  we  do  have  some  eats ! 

"Well,"  I  said,  wagging  my  head  proud  and  confident 
at  Babbitts,  "if  Wilbur  Whitney  and  Jack  Reddy  are 
out  to  find  that  Barker  man,  they'll  do  it  if  he  burrows 
through  to  China." 


CHAPTER  III 
JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

THE  appalling  suicide  of  HoUings  Harland,  fol- 
lowed by  the  non-appearance  of  Johnston 
Barker,  precipitated  one  of  the  most  spectacu- 
lar smashes  Wall  Street  had  seen  since  the  day  of  the 
Northern  Pacific  corner.  It  began  slowly,  but  as  the 
day  advanced  and  no  news  of  Barker  was  forthcoming 
it  became  a  snowslide,  for  the  rumor  flew  through  the 
city  that  there  had  been  a  "welcher"  in  the  pool  and 
that  the  welcher  was  its  head — Barker  himself. 

For  years  the  man  had  loomed  large  in  the  public 
eye.  He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  small,  wiry,  made 
of  iron  and  steel  with  a  nerve  nothing  could  shake. 
Like  so  many  of  our  big  capitalists,  he  had  begun  life 
in, the  mining  camps  of  the  far  Northwest,  had  never 
married,  and  had  kept  his  doors  shut  on  the  world  that 
tried  to  force  his  seclusion.  Among  his  rivals  he  was 
famed  for  his  daring,  his  ruthless  courage  and  his  almost 
uncanny  foresight.  He  was  a  financial  genius,  the  mak- 
ing of  money,  his  life.  But  as  one  coup  after  another 
jostled  the  Street,  the  wiseacres  wagged  their  heads 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  said  "Some  day !"  It  looked-  now  as  if  the  day  had 
come.  But  that  such  a  man  had  double-crossed  his 
associates  and  cleaned  them  out  of  twenty  millions 
seemed  incredible. 

It  was  especially  hard  to  believe — for  us  I  mean — 
as  on  the  morning  of  January  15  he  had  been  in  the 
Whitney  offices  conferring  with  the  chief  on  business. 
His  manner  was  as  cool  and  non-committal  as  usual, 
his  head  full  of  plans  that  stretched  out  into  the  future. 
Nothing  in  his  words  or  actions  suggested  the  gambler 
concentrated  on  his  last  and  most  tremendous  coup. 
Only  as  he  left  he  made  a  remark,  that  afterward  struck 
us  as  significant.  It  was  in  answer  to  a  query  of  the 
chief's  about  the  Copper  Pool: 

"There  are  developments  ahead — maybe  sensational. 
You'll  see  in  a  day  or  two." 

It  was  the  second  day  after  the  suicide  and  in  the 
afternoon,  having  a  job  to  see  to  on  the  upper  West 
Side,  I  decided  to  drop  in  on  Molly  Babbitts  and  have 
a  word  with  her.  I  always  drop  in  on  Molly  when  I 
happen  to  be  round  her  diggings.  Three  years  ago, 
after  the  calamity  which  pretty  nearly  put  a  quietus 
on  me  for  all  time,  Molly  and  I  clasped  hands  on  a 
friendship  pact  that,  God  willing,  will  last  till  the  grass 
is  growing  over  both  of  us.  She's  the  brightest,  biggest- 
hearted,  bravest  little  being  that  walks,  and  once  did 

35 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


me  a  good  turn.  But  I  needn't  speak  of  that — it's  a 
page  I  don't  like  to  turn  back.  It's  enough  to  say  that 
whatever  Molly  asks  me  is  done  and  always  will  be  as 
long  as  I've  breath  in  my  body. 

As  I  swung  up  the  long  reach  of  Central  Park  West 
— she's  a  few  blocks  in  from  there  on  Ninety-fifth  Street 
— my  thoughts,  circling  round  the  Harland  affair, 
brought  up  on  Miss  Whitehall,  whose  offices  are  just 
below  those  of  the  dead  man.  I  wondered  if  she'd  been 
there  and  hoped  she  hadn't,  a  nasty  business  for  a 
woman  to  see.  I'd  met  her  several  times — before  she 
started  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  scheme — at  the  house 
of  a  friend  near  Longwood  and  been  a  good  deal  im- 
pressed as  any  man  would.  She  was  one  of  the  hand- 
somest women  I'd  ever  seen,  dark  and  tall,  twenty-five 
or  -six  years  of  age  and  a  lady  to  her  finger  tips.  I 
was  just  laying  round  in  my  head  for  an  excuse  to 
call  on  her  when  the  viUa  site  business  loomed  up  and 
she  and  her  mother  whisked  away  to  town.  That  was 
the  last  I  saw  of  them,  and  my  fell  design  of  calling 
never  came  off — what  was  decent  civility  in  the  country, 
in  the  town  looked  like  butting  in.  Bashful?  Oh, 
probably.  Maybe  I'd  have  been  bolder  if  she'd  been 
less  good-looking. 

Molly  was  at  home,  and  had  to  give  me  tea,  and  here 
were  Soapy 's  cigars  and  there  were  Soapy 's  cigarettes. 

36 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Blessed  little  jolly  soul,  she  welcomes  you  as  if  you 
were  Admiral  Dewey  returning  from  Manila  Bay. 
Himself  was  at  the  Harland  inquest  and  maybe  he  and 
the  boys  would  be  in,  as  the  inquest  was  to  be  held  at 
Harland's  house  on  Riverside  Drive.  So  as  we  chatted 
she  made  ready  for  them — on  the  chance.  That's 
Molly  too. 

As  she  ran  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen  she  told  me  of 
a  visit  she'd  paid  the  day  before  to  Miss  Whitehall's 
office  and  let  drop  a  fact  that  gave  me  pause.  While 
she  was  there  a  man  had  come  with  a  note  from  some 
bank  which,  from  her  description,  seemed  to  be  pro- 
tested. That  was  a  surprise,  but  what  was  a  greater 
was  that  Harland  had  been  the  endorsee.  Out  Long- 
wood  way  there'd  been  a  good  deal  of  speculation  as 
to  how  the  Whitehalls  had  financed  so  pretentious  a 
scheme.  Men  I  knew  there  were  of  the  opinion  there 
had  been  a  silent  partner.  If  it  was  Harland — who  had 
a  finger  in  many  pies — the  enterprise  was  doomed.  I 
sat  back  puffing  one  of  Babbitts'  cigars  and  pondering. 
Why  the  devil  hadn't  I  called  ?  If  it  was  true,  I  might 
have  been  of  some  help  to  them. 

Before  I  had  time  to  question  her  further,  the  hall 
door  opened  and  Babbitts  came  in  with  a  trail  of  three 
reporters  at  his  heels.  I  knew  them  all — Freddy  Jas- 
par,  of  the  Sentmel,  who  three  years  ago  had  tried  to 

37 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


fix  the  Hesketh  murder  on  me  and  had  taken  twelve 
months  to  get  over  the  agony  of  meeting  me,  Jones,  of 
the  Clarion^  and  Bill  Yerrington,  star  reporter  of  a 
paper  which,  when  it  couldn't  get  its  headlines  big 
enough  without  crowding  out  the  news,  printed  them 
in  blood  red. 

They  had  come  from  the  inquest  and  clamored  for 
food  and  drink,  crowding  round  the  table  and  keeping 
Molly,  for  all  her  preparations,  swinging  like  a  pendu- 
lum between  the  kitchen  and  the  dining-room.  I  was 
keen  to  hear  what  had  happened,  and  as  she  whisked 
in  with  Jaspar's  tea  and  Babbitts'  coffee,  a  beer  for 
Yerrington  and  the  whiskey  for  Jones,  they  began  on  it. 

There'd  been  a  bunch  of  witnesses — the  janitor,  the 
elevator  boy,  Harland's  stenographer  who'd  had  hys- 
terics, and  Jerome,  his  head  clerk,  who'd  identified  the 
body  and  had  revealed  an  odd  fact  not  noticed  at  the 
time.  The  front  hall  window  of  the  eighteenth  story — 
the  window  Harland  was  supposed  to  have  jumped  from 
— had  been  closed  when  Jerome  ran  into  the  hall. 

*' Jerome's  positive  he  opened  it,"  said  Babbitts.  "He 
said  he  remembered  jerking  it  up  and  leaning  out  to 
look  at  the  crowd  on  the  street." 

"How  do  they  account  for  that?"  I  asked.  "Harland 
couldn't  have  stood  on  the  sill  and  shut  it  behind  him." 

Jaspar  explained: 

S8 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"No — It  wasn't  that  window.  He  went  to  the  floor 
below,  the  seventeenth.  The  janitor,  going  up  there 
an  hour  afterward,  found  the  hall  window  on  the  seven- 
teenth floor  wide  open." 

"That's  an  odd  thing,"  I  said — "going  down  one 
story." 

"You  can't  apply  the  ordinary  rules  of  behavior  to 
men  in  Harland's  state,"  said  Jones.  "They're  way  ofF 
the  normal.  I  remember  one  of  my  first  details  was  the 
suicide  of  a  woman,  who  killed  herself  by  swallowing 
a  key  when  she  had  a  gun  handy.  They  get  wild  and 
act  wild." 

Yerrington,  who  was  famous  for  injecting  a  sinister 
note  into  the  most  commonplace  happenings,  spoke 
up: 

"The  window's  easily  explained.  What  is  queer  is 
the  length  of  time  that  elapsed  between  his  leaving  the 
office  and  his  fall  to  the  street.  That  Franks  girl,  when 
she  wasn't  whooping  like  a  siren  in  a  fog,  said  it  was 
6.05  when  he  went  out.  At  twenty-five  to  seven  the 
body  fell — half  an  hour  later."  He  looked  at  me  with 
a  dark  glance.    "What  did  he  do  during  that  time  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  two  words,"  said  Jaspar.  "Stop 
and  think  for  a  moment.  What  was  that  man's  mental 
state.?  He's  ruined — he's  played  a  big  game  and  lost. 
But  life's  been  sweet  to  him — up  till  now  it's  given  him 

39 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


everything  he  asked  for.  There's  a  struggle  between 
the  knowledge  that  death  is  the  best  way  out  and  the 
desire  to  live." 

"To  express  it  in  language  more  suited  to  our  simple 
intellects,"  said  Jones,  "he's  taken  half  an  hour  to  make 
up  his  mind." 

"Precisely." 

"Where  did  he  spend  that  half  hour.?"  said  Yerring- 
ton,  in  a  deep,  meaningful  voice. 

"Hi,  you  Yerrington,"  cried  Babbitts,  "this  isn't  a 
case  for  posing  as  Burns  on  the  Trail.  What's  the 
matter  with  him  spending  it  in  the  seventeenth  floor 
hall.?" 

Molly,  who  was  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table  in  a 
mess  of  cups  and  steaming  pots,  colored  the  picture. 

"Pacing  up  and  down,  trying  to  get  up  his  nerve. 
Oh,  I  can  see  him  perfectly!" 

"Strange,"  said  Yerrington,  looking  somberly  at  the 
droplight,  "that  no  one  saw  him  pacing  there." 

*'A  great  deal  stranger  if  they  had,"  cut  in  Jones, 
^'considering  there  was  no  one  there  to  see.  It  was 
after  six — the  offices  were  empty." 

They  had  the  laugh  on  Yerrington  who  muttered 
balefully,  'dipping  into  his  glass. 

"It  fits  in  with  the  character  of  Harland,"  I  said,  "the 
stuif  in  the  papers,  all  you  hear  about  him.    He  was  an 

40 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


intellect  first — cool,  resolute,  hard  as  a  stone.  That 
kind  of  man  doesn't  act  on  impulse.  As  Mrs.  Babbitts 
says,  he  probably  paced  up  and  down  the  empty  cor- 
ridor with  his  vision  ranging  over  the  situation,  argu- 
ing it  out  with  himself  and  deciding  death  was  the  best 
way.    Then  up  with  the  window  and  out." 

"Do  you  suppose  Mr.  Barker  had  any  idea  he  was 
going  to  do  it  when  he  left.?"  Molly  asked. 

Babbitts  laughed. 

"Ask  us  an  easier  one,  Molly." 

Jaspar  answered  her,  looking  musingly  at  the  smoke 
of  his  cigarette. 

"I  guess  Barker  wasn't  bothering  much  about  any- 
body just  then.  His  own  get-away  was  occupying  his 
thoughts." 

"You're  confident  he's  lit  out?"  said  Jones. 

*'What  else.'*  Why,  if  he  wasn't  lying  low  in  that 
back  room,  didn't  he  come  out  when  he  heard  Miss 
Franks'  screams?  Why  hasn't  he  showed  up  since? 
Where  is  he?  That  idea  they've  got  in  his  office  that 
he  may  have  had  aphasia  or  been  kidnapped  is  all  tom- 
myrot.  They've  got  to  say  something  and  they  say 
that.  The  time  was  ripe  for  his  disappearance  and 
things  worked  out  right  for  him  to  make  it  then  and 
there.  If  he  didn't  slip  out  while  Miss  Franks  and 
Jerome  were  at  the  hall  window,  he  did  it  after  they'd 

41 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


gone  down.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  the  police 
went  up.  He  could  have  taken  his  time,  quietly 
descended  the  side  stairs  and  picked  up  his  auto  which 
was  waiting  in  some  place  he'd  designated." 

"That's  the  dope,"  said  Babbitts.  "And  it  won't  be 
many  more  'sleeps,'  as  the  Indians  say,  before  that  car 
is  run  to  earth.  You  can't  hide  a  man  and  a  French 
limousine  for  long." 

He  was  right.  Johnston  Barker's  car  was  located 
the  next  day  and  the  public  knew  that  the  head  of  the 
Copper  Pool  had  disappeared  by  design  and  intention. 
His  clerks  and  friends  who  had  desperately  suggested 
loss  of  memory,  kidnapping,  accident,  were  silenced. 
Their  protesting  voices  died  before  evidence  that  was 
conclusive.    Judge  for  yourself. 

On  the  morning  of  January  the  eighteenth,  Heney, 
the  chauffeur,  turned  up  in  the  Newark  court,  telling 
a  story  that  bore  the  stamp  of  truth.  At  five  o'clock 
on  the  day  of  the  suicide  he  had  received  a  phone 
message  in  the  garage  from  Barker.  This  message  in- 
structed him  to  take  the  limousine  that  evening  at  8.15 
to  the  corner  of  Twenty-second  Street  and  Ninth  Ave- 
nue. There  he  was  to  wait  for  his  employer,  but  not 
in  any  ordinary  way.  The  directions  were  explicit 
and,  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  illuminating.  He 
was  not  to  stop  but  to  move  about  the  locality,  watch- 

42 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


mg  for  Barker.  When  he  saw  him  he  was  to  run  along 
the  curb,  slowing  down  sufficiently  for  the  older  man 
to  enter  the  car. 

From  there  he  was  to  proceed  to  the  Jersey  Ferry, 
cross  and  continue  on  to  Elizabeth.  The  objective 
point  in  Elizabeth  was  the  railway  depot,  but  instead 
of  going  straight  to  it,  the  car  was  to  stop  at  the  foot 
of  the  embankment  on  the  Pennsylvania  side,  where 
Barker  would  alight.  Further  instructions  were  that 
Heney  was  to  mention  the  matter  to  no  one,  and  if 
asked  on  the  following  day  of  Barker's  whereabouts, 
deny  all  knowledge  of  it.  Pay  for  his  discretion  was 
promised. 

Heney  said  he  was  astonished,  as  he  had  been  in 
Barker's  employment  two  years  and  never  piloted  the 
magnate  on  any  such  mysterious  enterprise.  But  he 
did  what  he  was  told,  sure  of  his  money  and  trusting 
in  his  boss.  At  the  corner  of  the  two  streets  he  saw 
no  one,  looped  the  block,  and  on  his  return  made  out 
a  figure  moving  toward  him  that  slowed  up  as  he  came 
in  sight.  He  ran  closer  and  by  the  light  of  a  lamp 
recognized  Barker;  and  skirted  the  curb  as  he'd  been 
ordered.  With  a  nod  and  glance  at  him.  Barker  opened 
the  car  door  and  entered. 

The  run  to  Elizabeth  was  made  without  incident. 
Heney  stopped  the  car  at  the  Pennsylvania  side  of  the 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


culvert,  above  which  the  station  lights  shone.  Barker 
alighted  and  with  a  short  "Good  night"  mounted  the 
steps  to  the  depot. 

On  the  way  home,  going  at  high  speed,  Heney,  round- 
ing a  corner,  ran  into  a  wagon  and  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  a  pair  of  angry  farmers.  They  haled  him 
before  a  magistrate  to  whom  he  gave  a  false  name,  rep- 
resenting himself  as  a  chauffeur  joy-riding  in  a  bor- 
rowed car.  He  told  this  lie  hoping  to  be  able  to  hush 
the  matter  up  the  next  day. 

When  he  read  of  his  boss'  disappearance  in  the 
papers  he  was  uneasy,  knowing  discovery  could  not  be 
long  postponed.  The  number  of  the  car — overlooked 
in  the  rush  of  bigger  matters — was  made  public  in  the 
evening  papers  of  the  seventeenth.  Then  he  knew  the 
game  was  up,  admitted  his  deception  and  the  identity 
of  his  employer. 

Inquiries  at  the  Elizabeth  depot  confirmed  his  story. 
The  Jersey  Central  and  Pennsylvania  tracks  run  side 
by  side  through  the  station.  At  nine-thirty  on  the 
night  of  January  fifteenth  the  ticket  agent  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania Line  remembered  selling  a  Philadelphia  ticket 
to  a  man  answering  the  description  of  Barker.  He  did 
not  see  this  man  board  the  train,  being  busy  at  the  time 
in  his  office.  None  of  the  train  officials  had  any  recol- 
lection of  such  a  passenger,  but  as  the  coaches  were  full, 

44! 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  coming  and  going  of  people  continuous,  he  might 
easily  have  been  overlooked. 

After  this  there  was  no  more  doubt  as  to  Barker's 
flight.  The  papers  announced  it  to  an  amazed  public, 
shaken  to  its  core  by  the  downfall  of  one  of  its  finan- 
cial giants.  The  collapse  of  the  Copper  Pool  was  com- 
plete and  Wall  Street  rocked  in  the  last  throes  of  panic. 
From  the  wreckage  the  voices  of  victims  called  down 
curses  on  the  traitor,  the  man  who  had  planned  the  ruin 
of  his  associates  and  got  away  with  it. 

They  congregated  in  the  Whitney  office  where  the  air 
was  sulphurous  with  their  fury.  And  from  the  Whit- 
ney office  the  Whitney  detectives,  Jerry  O'Mally  at 
their  head,  slipped  away  to  Philadelphia,  with  their 
noses  to  the  trail.  With  his  picture  on  the  front  page 
of  every  paper  in  the  country  it  would  be  hard  for 
Barker  to  elude  them,  but  he  had  three  days'  start,  and, 
as  O'Mally  summed  it  up,  "It  has  only  taken  seven 
to  make  the  world." 


CHAPTER  IV 
MOLLY  TELLS  THE   STORY 

THE  day  after  the  Harland  inquest  I  meant  to 
go  down  and  see  lola  and  find  out  if  she'd 
heard  anything  from  Miss  Whitehall.  But 
that  day  I  got  sidetracked  some  way  or  other  and  the 
next  it  rained. 

Usually  I  don't  mind  rain,  but  this  was  the  real  wet, 
straight  kind  that  would  get  in  at  you  if  you  wore  a 
diver's  suit.  As  I  stood  at  the  parlor  window,  looking 
down  at  the  street  all  pools  and  puddles,  with  the  walls 
shining  under  a  thin  glaze  of  water,  and  the  umbrellas 
like  wet,  black  mushrooms,  I  got  faint-hearted.  I  could 
just  as  well  phone,  and  if  anything  had  transpired  (it 
was  the  business  I  was  uneasy  about)  go  down  and  help 
lola  through  the  fit  of  blind  staggers  she'd  be  bound 
to  have. 

So  presently  it  was : 

"Hello,  lola,  I  was  coming  down  today  but  it's  too 
moistuous." 

Then  lola's  voice,  sort  of  groaning: 

**0h,  Molly,  is  that  you  ?  I  do  wish  it  had  been  fine 
and  you'd  have  come." 

46 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Why — anything  wrong?" 

"Oh,  yes,  everything.  Miss  Whitehall  isn't  back  yet, 
and  Mr.  Ford's  hardly  been  in  at  all  and  has  such  a 
gloom  on  him  you  wouldn't  know  him,  and  I'm  awful 
discouraged." 

"Have  you  tried  to  see  Miss  Whitehall?" 

"No,  I  can't  seem  to  get  up  enough  spunk." 

"Why  don't  you  phone  her?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  I'm  sort  of  scared  of  what  I'll 
hear.  I  thought  I'd  better  sit  around  and  wait,  and 
then  I  thought  I  ought  to  find  out,  and  between  the 
two — Oh,  dear,  whafs  the  use!" 

That  was  just  like  lola.  The  only  way  you  can  be 
sure  she's  got  a  mind  at  all  is  the  trouble  she  has  mak- 
ing it  up.  If  it's  true  that  men  like  the  helpless  kind 
she  ought  to  have  a  string  of  lovers  as  long  as  the  line 
at  the  box  office  when  Caruso  sings  Pagliacci.  I  won- 
der I  ever  got  married ! 

"Tell  you  what,  girlie,"  I  said,  "you  come  up  tonight 
and  dine  with  me.  Himself  is  going  to  be  late  and  we 
two  bandits  will  steal  out  after  dinner  and  make  a 
raid  on  Miss  Whitehall's." 

Even  then  she  hung  back.  I  had  to  coax  and  urge 
and  it  was  only  me  promising  I'd  see  her  through  and 
if  necessary  ask  the  questions,  made  her  finally  agree. 

The  rain  held  on  all  day  and  it  was  teeming  when  we 

47 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


started  out.  Miss  Whitehall's  flat  was  on  the  other 
side  of  town — the  East  Sixties — and  we  had  to  go 
round  the  Park,  crowding  on  and  off  cars,  fighting  our 
way  through  packs  of  people,  lola  clawing  at  my  back 
and  catching  her  umbrella  in  men's  hats  and  women's 
hair  till  you'd  think  she  did  it  on  purpose.  When  we 
got  to  the  street  we  turned  east,  walking  from  Madison 
Avenue  over  Park  with  its  great  huge  apartment  houses, 
and  then  on  a  ways — not  far,  but  far  enough  to  make 
you  feel  Miss  Whitehall's  home  wasn't  as  stylishly  lo- 
cated as  her  office.  lola  was  that  nervous  I  was  afraid 
she'd  forget  the  number,  but  we  found  it,  on  a  corner 
over  a  drug  store,  where  there  were  large,  glassy  bot- 
tles in  the  window  and  advertisements  of  ladies  offering 
pills  and  candy  with  such  glad,  inviting  smiles  you'd 
know  it  was  damaged  stock. 

The  entrance  was  round  on  the  side,  and  as  we  stood 
in  the  vestibule,  dimly  lit,  with  a  line  of  letter  boxes 
on  each  side,  I  couldn't  help  but  whisper : 

"You'd  never  think  from  her  offices  she'd  live  over 
a  store." 

And  lola  answered,  pushing  the  button  under  a  letter 
box  marked  "Mrs.  Serena  Whitehall." 

"It's  a  shock  to  me.     I'd  no  more  connect  her  with 

a  push-button  than  I  would  you  with  a  glass-topped 

entrance  and  a  man  in  knee  pants." 

48 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  door  clicked  and  we  went  up  the  stairs,  one 
feeble  little  electric  bulb  furnishing  the  light.  There 
was  a  smell  in  the  air  like  one  of  the  tenants  had  had 
lamb  stew  for  dinner  and  another  was  smoking  the  kind 
of  cigar  that  tells  you  it's  strong  and  hearty  half  a 
block  off.  The  first-floor  landing  was  hers — a  card 
in  a  frame  by  the  door  told  us  so — and  we  pressed  on 
the  bell,  hearing  it  give  a  loud,  whirring  ring  inside. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  girl,  very  neat  in  a 
black  dress  and  white  apron.  She  was  sure  we  couldn't 
speak  to  Miss  Whitehall,  but  perhaps  Mrs.  Whitehall 
would  see  us  and  she  showed  us  up  the  tiny  little  hall 
into  the  dining-room.  I'd  never  have  believed  a  room 
furnished  so  plain  could  be  so  elegant.  There  was  a 
square  of  brown  carpet  on  the  floor  and  ecru  linen 
curtains — no  lace,  just  hemstitched — at  the  windows 
and  on  the  side  table  some  silver;  yet  it  had  a  refined, 
classy  look.  Two  doors  opened  from  it,  one  into  the 
hall  hung  with  a  blue  portiere  and  double  ones  that  I 
guessed  led  into  the  parlor.  We  could  hear  voices  com- 
ing from  there,  low  and  murmuring. 

By  this  time  lola  was  that  nervous  she  was  licking 
her  lips  with  her  tongue  like  a  baby  that's  had  a  sugar 
stick.  I  was  just  edging  round  to  give  her  a  dig  and 
whisper,  ''Brace  up,"  when  the  curtain  into  the  hall  was 
lifted  and  a  lady  came  in. 

49 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


As  she  was  well  along  in  years — near  to  fifty  I'd  say 
— I  knew  she  was  Mrs.  Whitehall.  She  was  very  digni- 
fied and  gentle,  with  black  hair  turning  gray  and  lots 
of  lines  on  her  forehead  and  round  her  eyes,  which  were 
dark  like  her  hair  and  had  a  sad,  weary  expression.  I 
guessed  she'd  been  handsome  once,  but  she  looked  as  if 
she'd  had  her  troubles,  and  when  I  heard  her  voice,  low 
and  so  quiet,  there  was  something  in  it  that  made  me 
feel  she  was  having  them  still. 

I'd  promised  to  be  spokesman  and  not  seeing  any 
reason  to  waste  time  I  went  straight  to  the  point.  Mrs. 
Whitehall  stood  listening,  her  hands  clasped  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  her  eyes  on  the  little  fern  plant  in  the 
center  of  the  table. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  best,"  she  said,  in  that  soft, 
faded  sort  of  voice,  "if  Miss  Barry  were  to  see  my 
daughter.     I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  her." 

She  turned  and  left  the  room  by  the  hall  door  and 
lola  gasped  at  me: 

"Oh,  MoUy,  it's  true!" 

"Don't  cross  your  bridges  till  you  come  to  them,"  I 
said,  but  all  the  same,  I  thought  it  looked  bad. 

"What'll  I  do  if  the  business  shuts  down?" 

"Shut  up  till  you  know  if  it  does,"  I  whispered  back. 

The  double  doors  rolled  back  and  Mrs.  Whitehall 
stood  between  them.    She  looked  at  lola, 

50 


The  Black  "Eagle  Mystery 


"If  you'll  come  in  here,  Miss  Barry,"  she  said,  "my 
daughter  will  see  you." 

It  was  plain  she  didn't  expect  me,  so  I  stood  by  the 
table  without  moving.  As  Mrs.  Whitehall  drew  back 
and  before  lola  got  to  the  doorway,  there  was  a  moment 
when  I  saw  into  the  room.  It  looked  real  artistic,  flow- 
ered cretonne  curtains,  wicker  chairs  with  cushions  and 
low  bookcases  around  the  walls,  the  whole  lit  up  by  the 
yellow  glow  of  lamps.  But  I  wasn't  interested  in  the 
furniture — what  caught  my  eye  was  a  couch  just  oppo- 
site the  open  door,  on  which  a  woman  was  lying. 

There  was  a  lamp  on  a  stand  beside  her  and  its  light 
fell  full  over  her.  If  I  hadn't  known  Carol  Whitehall 
was  there  I'd  have  guessed  right  off^  it  was  she  from 
the  likeness  to  her  mother.  She  had  just  the  same  hair 
and  deep,  rich-looking  eyes  except  in  her  the  hair  was 
black  as  night  and  the  eyes  were  young.  She  had  a 
newspaper  in  her  hand  and  as  the  doors  opened  she'd 
looked  up,  intent  and  questioning,  and  I  saw  she  was 
beautiful.  She  was  like  a  picture,  leaning  forward  with 
that  inquiring  expression,  her  features  clear  in  the 
flood  of  soft  light.  I  got  an  impression  of  her  then  that 
I've  never  forgotten — of  force  and  strength.  It  didn't 
come  from  anything  especial  in  her  face,  but  from 
something  in  her  general  makeup,  something  vivid  and 
warm,  like  she  was  alive  straight  through. 

61 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


J'hey  stayed  in  the  room  some  time  while  I  sat  wait- 
ing. I'd  sized  up  everything  in  sight,  especially  two 
little  glass  lamps  on  the  sideboard  that  I  thought  would 
be  a  nice  present  for  Babbitts  to  give  me  on  my  next 
birthday,  when  the  doors  slid  back  and  lola  came  in. 
She  didn't  say  anything  and  seemed  in  a  hurry  to  be  off. 
Mrs.  Whitehall  showed  us  out,  very  polite  but  de- 
pressed, and  when  the  door  was  shut  on  us  and  we  stole 
down  the  stairs,  I  felt  the  worst  had  come.  In  the  ves- 
tibule I  looked  at  lola  and  said:    "Well.?" 

She  was  struggling  with  her  umbrella,  her  face  bent 
over  it. 

"Fired !"  she  answered  in  a  husky  voice. 

The  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents,  and  wanting 
to  cuddle  up  comforting  against  her,  I  didn't  raise  my 
umbrella  and  we  walked  up  the  street,  squeezed  to- 
gether, with  the  downpour  spattering  around  us.  Be- 
lieve me,  the  water  fell  under  lola's  umbrella  pretty 
nearly  as  heavy  as  it  did  outside  it.  Miss  Whitehall 
was  broke.  Mr.  Harland  had  been  her  financial  backer 
and  now  she  was  ruined  and  the  business  would  close. 
The  surprise  and  horror  of  the  whole  thing  had  pros- 
trated her  and  as  soon  as  she  was  better  she'd  wind  up 
the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  and  try  and  sublet  her  offices, 
on  which  she  had  still  a  six  months'  lease. 

"She  was  awful  sweet,"  lola  sobbed.     "She  gave  me 

52 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  full  month's  salary  and  said  she'd  meant  to  keep  me 
forever.    Oh,  Molly,  why  did  it  have  to  happen  ?" 

I  squeezed  her  and  said: 

"That's  all  right,  dearie.  We'll  all  hustle  and  get 
you  another  job.  I  got  lots  of  money  and  what's  mine's 
yours — the  way  it  always  is  between  good  and  true 
friends." 

But  lola  wouldn't  be  comforted. 

**I  can't  take  your  money.  I  never  took  a  cent  yet. 
And  I  thought  I  was  fixed  for  life.  I  thought  even  if 
the  business  didn't  pan  out  big  she'd  marry  Mr.  Barker 
and  get  a  place  for  me." 

"Marry  Mr.  Barker !"  I  cried  out  astonished. 

"Yes — that's  what  I  thought  was  coming." 

Believe  Tne,  I  was  surprised.  She'd  never  dropped  a 
hint  of  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  before?"  I  asked. 

^'Because  Tony  Ford  told  me  not  to.  He  said  I 
wasn't  to  tell  anybody — that  Barker  being  such  a  big 
bug  it  would  get  in  the  papers  and  that  might  break  it 
all  up." 

"But  are  you  sure?  Did  he  act  like  he  was  in  love 
with  her?" 

We  were  passing  one  of  those  arc  lights  on  Park  Ave- 
nue, and  the  scornful  look  she  cast  at  me,  tears  and  all, 
was  plain. 

53 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Wouldn't  you  think  a  man  was  in  love — even  if  he 
was  a  magnate — ^who'd  buy  a  house  and  lot  just  for 
an  excuse  to  see  a  lady?" 

*'Did  you  ever  hear  him  making  love  to  her?" 

"No — but  I  didn't  need  to.  I've  been  made  love  to 
enough  myself  to  know  the  signs  without  hearing.  First 
it  was  all  business,  and  I  believed  it  was  only  that.  Then, 
one  day  when  Mr.  Ford  was  out,  he  came  in  and  lin- 
gered round  making  conversation.  You  know  the  way 
they  do  it,  and  for  all  he  was  a  magnate  Mr.  Barker 
was  just  the  same  as  the  errand  boy.  That's  the  way 
it  is  with  men — they  got  no  variety.  He  wanted  to 
know  about  her  home  and  the  farm  and  before  that. 
Oh,  Indiana,  a  fine  state,  Indiana!  It  made  me  laugh 
to  see  him  with  his  hook  nose  and  gray  hair  handing 
out  the  same  line  of  talk  that  Billy  Dunn  gave  me  when 
I  was  in  the  linen  envelope  place." 

"Did  she  seem  to  care  for  him?" 

"Not  at  first.  She  was  very  formal,  just  a  bow  and 
then  right  off  about  the  bungalow.  But  he  had  the 
symptoms  from  the  start — looking  at  her  like  he 
couldn't  take  his  eyes  off  and  not  caring  whether  the 
bungalow  was  as  small  as  a  hencoop  or  as  big  as  the 
Waldorf. 

"They  went  along  that  way  for  a  while  then  some- 
thing happened — a  fight,  I  guess  when  Tony  Ford  and 

54 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I  weren't  there.  Anyhow,  after  it  she  was  so  cold  and 
distant  you'd  wonder  he  had  the  nerve  to  come.  Then 
one  afternoon  he  came  in  and  asked  her  low — I  heard 
him — if  he  could  have  a  few  words  with  her  in  the  pri- 
vate ofBce.  She  hesitated  but  I  guess  she  couldn't  see 
her  way  to  refusing,  so  in  they  went  and  had  a  long 
powwow.  Whatever  it  was  they  said  to  each  other 
it  smoothed  out  all  the  wrinkles.  After  that  she  was 
as  different  to  him  as  summer  is  to  winter.  In  my  own 
mind  I  thought  they  were  engaged,  for  she'd  brighten 
up  when  he  came  in  and  smile,  I  never  saw  her  smile 
like  that  at  anyone,  and  once  when  they  thought  I 
couldn't  hear  I  heard  him  call  her  'dear.'  They'd  go 
into  the  private  office  and  talk.  Gee !  how  they  talked ! 
And  always  low  like  they  were  afraid  Tony  Ford  and  I 
might  overhear.  And  on  the  top  of  all  that  he  dis- 
appears." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  she's  been  sick." 

"Sure  it  is.  It's  bad  enough  to  lose  your  own  money, 
but  wouldn't  it  make  you  sick  to  lose  millions,  let  alone 
the  man  you're  in  love  with,  even  if  he  has  a  nose  you 
could  hang  an  umbrella  on?" 

"Poor  thing!"  I  said,  for  I  could  see  now  what  the 
lady  lying  on  the  couch  had  been  up  against. 

"We're  all  poor  things,"  said  lola,  beginning  to  get 
sorry  for  herself  again.    "Miss  Whitehall,  and  the  man 

55 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


that's  dead,  and  Tony  Ford  who's  lost  his  job,  and  me, 
poor  unfortunate  me,  that  I  thought  was  on  velvet  for 
the  rest  of  my  days." 

Babbitts  didn't  get  home  till  late  that  night,  but  I 
was  so  full  of  what  lola  had  said  that  I  waited  up  for 
him.  When  he  did  come,  he  hadn't  but  one  kiss,  when 
I  pulled  away  from  him  and  told  him. 

"Doesn't  it  seem  to  you,  Soapy,"  I  said,  "that  that 
story  ought  to  go  back  to  Mr.  Whitney?" 

He  looked  at  me  sideways  with  a  sly,  questioning 
glance. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

**Why,  if  Barker's  in  love  with  her  don't  you  think 
maybe  he'll  try  and  creep  back  or  get  in  touch  with 
her  some  way  ?" 

He  burst  out  laughing. 

**0h,  Morningdew,  there's  a  lot  of  nice  things  about 
you,  but  one  of  the  nicest  is  that  you  never  disappoint 
a  fellow.  I  was  wondering  if  you'd  see  it.  Go  back  to 
Mr.  Whitney?  It'll  go  back  the  first  thing  tomorrow 
morning  and  you'll  take  it." 


CHAPTER  V 
MOLLY  TELLS   THE   STORY 

THE  next  morning  Babbitts  and  I  started  out 
for  the  offices  of  Whitney  &  Whitney.  They're 
far  downtown,  near  Wall  Street,  way  up  in 
the  top  of  a  skyscraper  where  the  air  is  good  even  in 
summer.  I'd  been  in  them  before,  and  it  was  funny  as 
we  shot  up  in  the  elevator  to  think  of  those  first  visits, 
when  I  was  so  scared  of  Mr.  Whitney — "the  chief,"  as 
Jack  Reddy  calls  him,  and  it's  his  name  all  right. 

We  were  shown  right  into  his  office,  like  we'd  come 
with  a  million-dollar  lawsuit,  and  when  he  saw  me  he 
got  up  and  held  out  his  big,  white  hand. 

"Well,  well,  Molly !  How's  the  smartest  girl  in  New 
York?"  Then  he  looked  from  me  to  Babbitts  with  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye.  "She's  looking  fine,  my  boy.  You've 
taken  good  care  of  her."  And  then  back  to  me,  "Treats 
you  well,  eh  ?  If  he  doesn't — remember — ^Whitney  & 
Whitney's  services  are  yours  to  command." 

That's  the  way  he  is,  always  glad  to  see  you,  always 
with  his  joke.  But,  there's  another  side  to  him — a 
sort  of  terrible,  fierce  quiet — I've  seen  it  and — Gee  whiz ! 

67 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


If  he  ever  got  after  me  the  way  I  once  saw  him  get  after 
a  man  he  thought  was  guilty  I'd  crawl  under  the  table 
and  die  right  there  on  the  carpet.  He  isn't  a  bit  good- 
looking — a  big,  clumsy  sort  of  man,  stoop-shouldered, 
and  with  a  head  of  rough  gray  hair  and  eyes  set  deep 
under  bushy  brows.  When  he  questions  you  those  eyes 
look  at  you  kind  and  pleasant — but,  forget  it!  There's 
not  a  thing  they  don't  see.  You  think  your  face  is  solid 
flesh  and  blood.  It  is  to  most — but  to  Mr.  Whitney 
it's  no  more  than  a  pane  of  glass. 

His  son  George — he  was  there  and  Jack  Reddy  too — ' 
doesn't  favor  his  father.  He's  an  awful  stylish  chap, 
with  blond  hair  sleeked  down  on  his  skull,  and  glasses 
set  pert  on  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  They  say  he's  smart, 
but  not  as  big  as  the  old  man,  and  he  hasn't  got 
the  same  genial,  easy  way.  But  he's  always  very  cor- 
dial to  us,  and  even  if  he  wasn't  his  father's  son  and  a 
close  friend  of  Jack  Reddy's,  I  guess  I'd  like  him  any- 
how. 

They  were  very  interested  in  what  I  had  to  say,  but 
with  Mr.  Whitney  himself  you  never  can  guess  what 
he  thinks.  He  sits  listening,  slouched  down  in  his  arm- 
chair, with  his  shirt  bosom  crumpled,  like  an  old  bear 
ruminating— or  hibernating  is  it? — in  a  hollow  tree. 
When  I  was  through  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  took  a 
cigar  from  a  box  on  the  table  and  said: 

58 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Just  call  up  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates,  George,  and 
find  out  how  long  Miss  Whitehall  expects  to  be  there." 
Then  as  Mr.  George  left  the  room  he  turned  to  me  and 
said,  "Want  to  make  some  money  .f^" 

I  have  a  lot  of  money — ten  thousand  dollars, 
the  reward  they  gave  me  after  the  Hesketh  Mystery 
was  solved — so  money  doesn't  cut  much  ice  with  me. 
But  doing  something  for  Mr.  Whitney  does,  and  I 
guessed  right  off  he  had  a  little  job  for  Molly  Bab- 
bitts. 

'*I  want  to  do  whatever  Whitney  &  Whitney  asks," 
I  said.  "That's  a  privilege  and  you  don't  get  paid  for 
privileges." 

He  burst  out  laughing  and  said: 

"It's  easily  seen  half  of  you's  Irish,  Molly.  There  is 
something  you  can  do  for  me,  and  whether  you  want 
it  or  not,  you'll  be  paid  for  your  services  just  as  O'Mal- 
ly,  my  own  detective,  is.  Here  it  is.  That  informa- 
tion you  got  from  your  little  friend  is  valuable.  As  you 
were  sharp  enough  to  see.  Barker  may  try  to  get  in 
touch  with  Miss  Whitehall.  To  my  mind  he'd  be  more 
inclined  to  try  her  office  than  her  home  where  there's  a 
mother  and  a  servant  to  overhear  and  ask  questions. 
What  would  you  think  about  going  on  the  switchboard 
again?" 

My  old  work,  the  one  thing  I  covld  do ! 

59 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Bully !"  I  cried  out,  forgetting  my  language  in  my 
excitement. 

Mr.  Whitney  smiled: 

"Then  we're  agreed.  As  soon  as  I  can  arrange  mat- 
ters I'll  let  you  know,  probably  this  afternoon.  I  don't 
now  know  just  where  we'll  put  you  but  I  fancy  in  the 
Black  Eagle's  own  central.  And  I  don't  need  to  say 
to  both  of  you  that  you're  to  keep  as  silent  as  you  did 
in  the  Hesketh  case." 

I  smiled  to  myself  at  that.  Mr.  Whitney  knew,  no 
one  better,  that  when  it  comes  to  keeping  mum  a  deaf 
mute  hasn't  anything  over  me. 

Just  then  Mr.  George  came  back,  ^e  had  got  Tony 
Ford  on  the  wire  and  heard  from  him  that  Miss  White- 
hall might  be  in  her  offices  some  time  yet,  as  she  was  try- 
ing to  sublet  them. 

Late  that  afternoon  I  had  my  instructions.  The 
next  morning  I  was  to  go  to  the  Black  Eagle  Building 
and  begin  work  as  a  hello  girl.  If  questioned  I  was  to 
answer  that  all  I  knew  was  Miss  McCalmont,  the  old 
girl,  had  been  transferred  and  I  was  temporarily 
installed  in  her  place.  It  was  my  business  to  listen  to 
every  phone  message  that  went  into  or  out  from  the 
Azalea  Woods  Estates.  I  would  be  at  liberty  to  give 
my  full  attention  as  almost  every  office  had  its  own  wire. 
Miss  Whitehall  had  had  hers  but  it  had  been  discon- 

60 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


nected  since  her  failure,  and  she  was  only  accessible 
through  the  building's  central.  The  work  was  so  easy 
it  seemed  a  shame  to  take  the  money. 

The  first  two  days  there  was  nothing  doing  and  it 
was  desperate  dull.  The  telephone  office  was  off  the 
main  hall  to  one  side  of  the  elevator,  a  bright  little 
place  on  the  street  level.  A  good  part  of  the  time  I 
sat  at  the  desk  looking  out  at  the  people  passing  like 
shadows  across  the  ground  glass  of  the  windows.  There 
were  some  calls  for  Miss  Whitehall,  all  business.  These, 
no  matter  what  they  were,  I  listened  to  but  got  nothing. 
Sometimes  she  answered,  sometimes  Tony  Ford. 

My  desk  was  set  so  I  could  see  out  through  the  door- 
way into  the  hall,  and  the  first  morning  I  was  there  I 
saw  her  pass.  She  looked  better  than  she  had  that 
night  in  her  own  apartment,  but  her  face  had  a  grave, 
worried  expression  which  you  couldn't  be  surprised  at, 
seeing  how  things  stood  with  her. 

It  was  the  second  evening  and  I  was  thinking  of  get- 
ting ready  to  go — the  building's  exchange  closed  at 
half-past  six — when  a  tall  fellow  with  a  swagger  in 
his  walk  and  his  shoulders  held  back  like  he  thought 
a  lot  of  his  shape,  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  called 
out: 

"Hello,  Miss  McCalmont.    How  goes  the  times?" 

I  looked  up  surprised  and  when  he  saw  it  wasn't  Miss 

61 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


McCalmont  he  looked  surprised  too,  raising  his  eye- 
brows and  opening  his  eyes  with  an  exaggerated  ex- 
pression Hke  he  did  it  to  make  you  laugh.  He  was  a 
fine-looking  chap  if  size  does  it — over  six  feet  and  wide 
across  the  chest — but  his  face,  broad  and  flat,  with 
cheeks  too  large  for  his  features,  wasn't  the  kind  I 
admire.  Also  I  noticed  that  the  good-natured  look  it 
had  was  contradicted  by  the  gray,  small  eyes,  sharp  as 
a  gimlet  and  hard  as  a  nail.  I  supposed  he  was  some 
clerk  from  one  of  the  offices  come  to  ask  Miss  McCal- 
mont to  dinner — they're  always  doing  that — and  an- 
swered careless,  fingering  at  the  plugs : 

"Miss  McCalmont's  been  transferred." 

"You  don't  say,"  says  he,  leaning  easy  against  the 
doorpost.     "Since  when  is  that?" 

"Since  I  came,"  I  answered. 

He  grinned,  showing  teeth  as  white  as  split  almonds, 
and  his  eyes  over  the  grin  began  to  size  me  up,  shrewd 
and  curious.  Taking  him  for  some  fresh  guy  that  Miss 
McCalmont  was  jollying  along — they  do  that  too — ^I 
paid  no  attention  to  him,  humming  a  tune  and  looking 
languid  at  my  finger  nails.  He  wasn't  phazed  a  little 
bit,  but  making  himself  comfortable  against  the  door- 
post, said: 

"Going  to  stay  on  here?" 

"The  central'll  give  you  all  the  information   you 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


want,"  I  answered  and  wheeling  round  in  my  chair 
looked  at  the  clock.  "Ten  minutes  past  six.  How  slow 
the  time  goes  when  you're  dull." 

He  burst  out  laughing  and  he  did  have  a  jolly,  in- 
fectious kind  of  laugh. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "you're  a  live  one,  aren't  you?'* 

"I  wouldn't  be  long,  if  I  had  to  listen  to  all  the  guys 
that  ain't  got  anything  better  to  do  than  block  up  door- 
ways and  try  to  be  fresh." 

He  laughed  louder  and  lolled  up  against  the  wood- 
work. 

"I  like  you  fine,"  said  he.  "Are  you  a  permanency  or 
just  a  fleeting  vision.^" 

"Talking  of  fleeting  visions,  ain't  it  about  your  din- 
ner hour?" 

"You  act  to  me  as  if  this  was  your  first  job,"  was 
his  answer,  sort  of  thoughtful. 

Wouldn't  it  make  you  smile!  It  did  me — a  small 
quiet  smile  all  to  myself.  He  saw  it,  dropped  his  head 
to  one  side  and  said,  as  smooth  and  sweet  as  molasses : 

"What  do  they  call  you,  little  one?" 

It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  laughing,  but  I 
crumpled  up  my  forehead  into  a  scowl  and  looked  cross 
at  him: 

"What  my  name  is  you'll  never  know  and  what  yours 
is  you  needn't  tell  me  for  I've  guessed.     I've  met  mem- 

63 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


bers  of  your  tribe  before — it's  large  and  prominent — > 
the  ancient  and  honorable  order  of  jackasses." 

He  made  me  a  low  bow. 

"So  flattered  at  this  speedy  recognition,"  he  says, 
airy  and  smiling.  "You  may  know  the  tribe,  but  not 
the  individual.  Permit  me  to  introduce  myself — ^An- 
thony Ford." 

I  gave  a  start  and  turned  it  into  a  stretch.  So  this 
was  the  wonderful  Tony  Ford — a  slick  customer  all 
right. 

"That  don't  convey  anything  to  my  mind,"  I  an- 
swered. "A  rose  by  any  other  name  still  has  its 
thorns." 

"For  more  data — I'm  the  managing  clerk  of  the 
Azalea  Woods  Estates,  see  seventeenth  floor,  first  door 
to  your  left." 

"Ain't  I  heard  you  were  closed  up  there  .f^" 

"We  are.  This  may  be  the  last  time  you'll  ever  see 
me,  so  look  well  at  me.  Er — ^what  did  you  say  your 
name  was .'"' 

"One  of  the  unemployed !"  I  said,  falling  back  in  my 
chair  and  rolling  my  eyes  up  at  the  ceiling.  *'Hangs 
round  my  switchboard  and  hasn't  the  price  of  a  dinner 
in  his  jeans." 

"I  was  too  hasty,"  said  he ;  "this  isn't  your  first  job." 

"If  your  place  is  shut  what  are  you  doing  here — 

64* 


'Say/  he  said,  *you*re  a  live  one,  aren't  you?'  " 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


not  at  this  present  moment,  the  actions  of  fools  are  an 
old  story  to  me — but  in  the  building?" 

"Closing  up  the  business.  Did  you  think  I  was  nos- 
ing round  for  an  unlocked  door  or  an  open  safe?  Does 
this  fresh,  innocent  countenance  look  like  the  mug  of 
a  burglar?"  He  grinned  and  thrusting  a  hand  into  his 
pocket  rattled  the  loose  silver  there.  "Hear  that?  Has 
a  sound  like  a  dinner,  hasn't  it?" 

That  made  me  mad — the  vain  fool  thinking  he  could 
flirt  with  me  as  he  had  with  lola.  I  slanted  a  side  look 
at  him  and  his  broad  shining  face  with  the  eyes  that 
didn't  match  it  gave  me  a  feeling  like  I  longed  to  slap 
it  good  and  hard.  Gee,  I'd  have  loved  to  feel  my  hand 
come  whang  up  against  one  of  those  fat  cheeks!  But 
it's  the  curse  of  being  a  perfect  lady  that  you  can't  hit 
when  you  feel  like  it — except  with  your  tongue. 

"I  ain't  known  many  burglars,"  I  answered,  "but  now 
that  I  look  at  you  it  does  come  over  me  that  you've  a 
family  resemblance  to  those  few  I've  met.  Seeing  which 
I'll  decline  the  honor  of  your  invitation.     Safety  first." 

That  riled  him.  He  flushed  up  and  a  surly  look 
passed  over  his  face  making  it  ugly.  Then  he  shrugged 
up  his  shoulders  and  leaned  off  the  doorpost,  giving  a 
hitch  to  the  front  of  his  coat. 

"I  generally  like  a  dash  of  tabasco  in  mine,"  says 
he,  "but  when  it  comes  to  the  whole  bottle  spiUed  in 

65 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  dish,  it's  too  hot.  Just  make  a  note  of  that  against' 
our  next  meeting.  I  don't  like  being  disappointed  twice. 
Good  evening." 

And  off  he  went,  swaggering  down  the  hall. 

On  the  way  home  I  wondered  what  Soapy'd  say  when 
I  told  him,  but  when  he  came  in  Tony  Ford  went 
straight  out  of  my  head  for  at  last  there  was  exciting 
news — Barker  had  been  located  in  Philadelphia. 

Two  people  had  seen  him  there,  one  a  man  who  knew 
him  well,  and  saw  him  the  night  before  in  a  taxi,  the 
other  an  Italian  who  kept  a  newsstand.  That  same 
evening  between  eight  and  nine  Barker  had  stopped 
at  the  stand  and  bought  several  New  York  papers.  The 
Italian,  who  was  quick-witted,  recognized  him  from  his 
pictures  in  the  papers,  and  reported  to  the  police. 

"He's  evidently  only  going  out  after  dark,"  said 
Babbitts.  "But  a  man  can't  hide  for  long  whose  pic- 
ture's spread  broadcast  over  the  country." 

"And  who's  got  a  face  like  the  American  Eagle  after 
it's  grown  a  white  mustache,"  I  answered. 

That  was  Thursday  night.  Friday  morning  I  tod- 
dled down  to  my  job,  feeling  there  wasn't  much  in  it 
and  that  when  I  came  home  I'd  hear  Barker  was  landed 
and  it  would  be  domestic  life  again  for  little  Molly. 

The  day  went  by  quiet  and  uneventful  as  the  others 
had  been.    I  read  a  novel  and  sewed  at  a  tray  cloth,  and 

m 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


now  and  then  jacked  in  for  a  call.  It  was  getting  on 
for  evening  and  I  was  thinking  about  home  and  dinner 
when — Bang!  came  two  calls,  one  right  after  the  other, 
that  made  me  feel  I  was  earning  my  money. 

The  first  was  at  a  quarter  to  five.  Our  central  came 
sharp  and  clear: 

*'Hello,  Gramercy  3503 — ^Long  Distance — ^Philadel- 
phia's calling  you." 

Philadelphia !  Can  you  see  me  stiffening  up,  with  my 
hand  ready  to  raise  the  cam? 

"All  right— Gramercy  3503." 

I  could  hear  the  girls  in  our  central,  the  wait  of  hum 
and  broken  sounds — how  well  I  knew  it! — and  then  a 
distant  voice,  brisk  and  business-like,  "Hello,  Philadel- 
phia— Waiting."  Then  a  pause  and  presently  the  whis- 
pering jar  of  the  wires,  "Here's  your  party.  Gram- 
ercy 3503,  all  right  for  Philadelphia." 

Running  over  those  miles  and  miles  the  voice — a 
man's — came  clear  as  a  bell. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates." 

I  made  the  connection,  softly  lifted  the  cam,  and  lis- 
tened in. 

"Is  this  the  office  of  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates?" 

A  woman's  voice  answered,  as  close  as  if  she  was  in 
the  next  room: 

"Yes— who  is  it?" 

67 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Is  Mr.  Anthony  Ford  there?" 

"No,  Mr.  Ford  has  left  mj  employment.  I  am  Miss 
Whitehall,  my  business  is  closed." 

There  was  a  pause.  My  heart  which  had  hit  up  a 
lively  gait  began  to  ease  down.  Only  Tony  Ford- 
Pshaw  ! 

"Are  you  there.'"'  said  the  woman. 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer.  "Could  you  give  me  his 
address  ?^^ 

"Certainly.    Hold  the  wire  for  a  moment." 

After  a  wait  of  a  minute  or  two  she  was  back  with 
the  address  which  she  gave  him.  He  repeated  it  care- 
fully, thanked  her  and  hung  up. 

Talk  of  false  alarms !  I  was  so  disappointed  think- 
ing I'd  got  something  for  Mr.  Whitney,  that  I  sat 
crumpled  up  in  my  chair  sulking,  and  right  in  the  mid- 
dle of  my  sulks  came  the  second  call. 

It  was  Long  Distance  again — Toronto. 

"I  wonder  what  Toronto  wants  with  her,"  I  thought 
as  I  jacked  in,  and  then,  leaning  my  elbow  on  the  desk 
listened,  not  much  interested.  Three  sentences  hadn't 
passed  before  I  was  as  still  as  a  graven  image,  all  my 
life  gone  into  my  ears. 

"Is  that  you,  Carol.?"  I  could  just  hear  it,  a  fine  lit- 
tle thread  of  sound  as  if  it  came  from  a  ghost  in  the 
other  world. 

68 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Yes — who's  speaking?" 

"It's  I— J.  W.  B." 

Barker's  initials!  Mj  heart  gave  a  leap  and  then 
began  to  fox  trot.  If  I  had  any  doubts,  her  answer  put 
an  end  to  them.  I  could  hear  the  gasp  in  her  breath, 
the  fright  in  her  voice. 

"You?    What  are  you  doing  this  for?" 

"There's  no  danger.  I'm  careful.  Did  you  get  my 
letter?" 

"Yes,  this  morning." 

"Will  you  come?" 

"Are  you  sure  it's  all  right?  Have  you  seen  the 
papers  here?" 

"All  of  them.  Don't  be  afraid.  I'm  taking  no  risks. 
Are  you  coming?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"I  can  leave  tonight.     There's  a  train  at  eight." 

"Good.  I'll  meet  you  and  explain  everything.  Do 
as  I  said  in  the  letter.    I'll  be  there." 

"Very  well — I  understand.  Please  ring  off.  Good- 
bye." 

For  a  moment  I  sat  thinking.  She  was  going  to  To- 
ronto to  meet  Barker  by  a  train  that  left  at  eight,  and 
it  was  now  half-past  five.  There  was  no  use  trying  to 
trace  the  call — I  knew  enough  for  that — so  I  got  Mr. 

69 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Whitney's  office  and  told  him,  careful,  without  names. 
He  was  awful  pleased  and  handed  me  out  some  com- 
pliments that  gave  me  the  courage  to  ask  for  something 
I  was  crazy  to  get — the  scoop  for  Babbitts.  It  would 
be  a  big  story — Barker  landed  through  the  girl  he  was 
in  love  with.  I  knew  they'd  follow  her  and  could  Bab- 
bitts go  along?  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that  he  agreed, 
making  only  one  condition — if  they  were  unsuccessful, 
silence,  O'Mally,  who  was  up  from  Philadelphia,  would 
go.  Babbitts  could  join  him  at  the  Grand  Central 
Station. 

I  took  a  call  for  the  Dispatch,  found  Babbitts  and 
told  him  enough  to  send  him  home  on  the  run — but  not 
much;  there's  too  many  phones  in  those  newspaper 
offices.  It  was  nearly  seven  when  I  got  there  myself, 
dragged  him  into  our  room,  and  while  I  packed  his  grip 
gave  him  the  last  bulletins.  He  was  up  in  the  air.  It 
would  be  the  biggest  story  that  had  ever  come  his  way. 

I  had  to  go  down  to  the  station  with  him,  for  neither 
he  nor  O'Mally  knew  her.  I  was  desperate  afraid  she 
wouldn't  come — get  cold  feet  the  way  women  do  when 
they're  eloping.  But  at  a  quarter  of  eight  she  showed 
up.  She  didn't  look  a  bit  nervous  or  rattled,  and  went 
about  getting  her  ticket  as  quiet  as  if  she  was  going 
for  a  week-end  to  Long  Island.  O'Mally — ^he  was  a 
fat,   red-faced  man,  looking  more  like  a   commercial 

70 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


traveler  than  a  sleuth — ^was  right  behind  her  as  she 
bought  it.  Then  as  she  walked  to  the  track  entrance 
with  her  suitcase  in  her  hand,  I  saw  them  follow  her, 
lounging  along  sort  of  neighborly  and  casual,  till  the 
three  of  them  disappeared  under  the  arch. 

It  was  late  before  I  went  to  sleep  that  night.  I  kept 
imagining  them  tracking  her  through  the  Toronto 
Depot,  leaping  into  a  taxi  that  followed  close  on  hers, 
and  going  somewhere — but  where  I  couldn't  think — to 
meet  Barker.  For  the  first  time  I  began  to  wonder  if 
any  harm  could  come  to  Babbitts.  In  detective  stories 
when  they  shadowed  people  there  were  generally  re- 
volvers at  the  finish.  But,  after  all,  Johnston  Barker 
wasn't  flying  for  his  life,  or  flying  from  jail.  As  far 
as  I  could  get  it,  he  was  just  flying  away  with  the  Cop- 
per Pool's  money.  Perhaps  that  wasn't  desperate 
enough  for  revolvers. 

When  I  finally  did  go  to  sleep  I  dreamed  that  all  of 
us,  the  fat  man.  Babbitts,  Carol  Whitehall  and  I  and 
Mr.  Barker,  were  packed  together  in  one  taxi,  which 
was  rushing  through  the  dark,  lurching  from  side  to 
side.  As  if  we  weren't  enough,  it  was  piled  high  with 
suitcases,  on  one  of  which  I  was  sitting,  squeezed  up 
against  Mr.  Barker,  who  had  a  face  like  an  eagle,  and 
kept  telling  me  to  move  so  he  could  get  his  revolver. 

I  don't  know  what  hour  I  awoke,  but  the  light  was 

71 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


coming  in  between  the  curtains  and  the  radiators  were 
beginning  to  snap  with  the  morning  heat  when  I  opened 
my  eyes.  I  came  awake  suddenly  with  that  queer  sen- 
sation you  sometimes  have  that  you're  not  alone. 

And  I  wasn't.  There  sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  bed- 
side, all  hunched  up  in  his  overcoat,  with  his  suitcase 
at  his  feet,  was  Himself,  looking  as  cross  as  a  bear. 

I  sat  up  with  a  yelp  as  if  he'd  been  a  burglar. 

*^You  here?"  I  cried. 

He  looked  at  me,  glum  as  an  owl,  and  nodded. 

"Yes.    It's  aU  right." 

"Why — why — ^what's  happened  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"You  haven't  been  to  Toronto  and  back  in  this 
time.?" 

"I've  been  to  Rochester  and  back,"  he  snapped. 
"She  got  out  there,  waited  most  of  this  infernal  night 
and  took  the  first  return  train." 

"Came  back.?" 

*'Isn't  that  what  I'm  saying?"  For  Himself  to  speak 
that  way  to  me  showed  he  was  riled  something  dreadful. 
"She  got  off  at  Rochester  and  stayed  round  in  the 
depot — didn't  see  anyone,  or  speak  to  anyone,  or  send  a 
phone,  or  a  wire.  She  got  a  train  back  at  three,  we 
followed  her  and  saw  her  go  up  the  steps  of  her  own 
apartment." 

7a 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Why — ^what  do  you  make  of  it?" 
He  shrugged: 

"Only  one  of  two  things.     She  either  changed  her 
mind  or  saw  she  was  being  shadowed." 


CHAPTER  VI 
JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

THIS  chapter  in  our  composite  story  falls  to 
me,  not  because  I  can  write  it  better  but 
because  I  was  present  at  that  strange  inter- 
view which  changed  the  whole  face  of  the  Harland  case. 
Even  now  I  can  feel  the  tightening  of  the  muscles,  the 
horrified  chill,  as  we  learned,  in  one  of  the  most  unex- 
pected and  startling  revelations  ever  made  in  a  law- 
yer's office,  the  true  significance  of  the  supposed  sui- 
cide. 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  night  ride  of  Babbitts 
and  O'Mally,  and  I  was  late  at  the  office.  The  matter 
had  been  arranged  after  I  left  the  evening  before  and 
I  knew  nothing  of  it.  As  I  entered  the  building  I  ran 
into  Babbitts,  who  was  going  to  the  Whitney  offices  to 
report  on  his  failure  and  in  the  hopes  that  some  new 
lead  might  have  cropped  up.  Drawing  me  to  the  side 
of  the  hall  he  told  me  of  their  expedition.  I  listened 
with  the  greatest  interest  and  surprise.  It  struck  me 
as  amazing  and  rather  horrible.  Until  I  heard  it  I  had 
not  believed  the  story  of  the  typewriter  girl — that 

74 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Barker  was  in  love  with  Miss  Whitehall — but  in  the 
face  of  such  evidence  I  had  nothing  to  say. 

We  were  both  so  engrossed  that  neither  noticed  a 
woman  holding  a  child  by  the  hand  and  moving  uncer- 
tainly about  our  vicinity.  It  -^asn't  till  the  story  was 
over  and  we  were  walking  toward  the  elevator  that  I 
was  conscious  of  her,  looking  this  way  and  that,  jostled 
by  the  men  and  evidently  scared  and  bewildered.  Judg- 
ing her  too  timid  to  ask  her  way,  and  too  unused  to 
such  surroundings — she  looked  poor  and  shabby — to 
consult  the  office  directory  on  the  wall,  I  stopped  and 
asked  her  where  she  wanted  to  go. 

She  gave  a  start  and  said  with  a  brogue  as  rich  as 
butter : 

"It's  to  L'yer  Whitney's  office  I'm  bound,  but  where 
is  it  I  don't  know  and  it's  afeared  I  am  to  be  demandin' 
the  way  with  everyone  runnin'  by  me  like  hares." 

"I'm  going  there  myself,"  I  said,  "I'll  take  you." 

She  bubbled  out  in  relieved  thanks  and  followed  us 
into  the  elevator.  As  the  car  shot  up  I  looked  her  over 
wondering  what  she  could  want  with  the  chief.  She  was 
evidently  a  working  woman,  neatly  dressed  in  a  dark 
coat  and  small  black  hat  under  which  her  hair  was 
drawn  back  smooth  and  tight.  Her  face  was  of  the 
best  Irish  type,  round,  rosy  and  honest.  One  of  her 
hands  clasped  the  child's,  his  little  fingers  crumpled 

•75 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


inside  her  rough,  red  ones.  She  addressed  him  as  "Dan- 
nie," and  when  passengers  crowded  in  and  out,  drew 
him  up  against  her,  with  a  curious,  soft  tenderness  that 
seemed  instinctive. 

He  was  a  pale,  thin  little  chap,  eight  or  nine,  with 
large,  gray  eyes,  that  he'd  lift  to  the  faces  round  him 
with  a  solemn,  searching  look.  I  smiled  down  at  him 
but  didn't  get  any  response,  and  it  struck  me  that  both 
of  them — woman  and  boy — were  in  a  state  of 
suppressed  nervousness.  Every  time  the  gate  clanged 
she'd  jump,  and  once  I  heard  her  mutter  to  him  "not 
to  be  scared." 

Inside  the  office  Babbitts  went  up  the  hall  to  the  old 
man's  den  and  I  tried  to  find  out  what  she  wanted.  Her 
nervousness  was  then  obvious.  Shifting  from  foot  to 
foot,  her  free  hand — she  kept  a  tight  clutch  on  the  boy 
— fingering  at  the  buttons  of  her  coat,  she  refused  to 
say.  All  I  could  get  out  of  her  was  that  she  had  some- 
thing important  to  tell  and  she  wouldn't  tell  it  to  any- 
one but  "L'yer  Whitney." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  was  aroused.  I  asked  her 
if  she  was  a  witness  in  a  case,  and  with  a  troubled  look 
she  said  "maybe  she  was,"  and  then,  backing  away  fron/ 
me  against  the  wall,  reiterated  with  stubborn  deter- 
mination, "But  I  won't  speak  to  no  one  but  L'yer  Whit- 
ney himself." 

76 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I  went  up  to  the  private  office  where  the  old  man  and 
George  were  talking  with  Babbitts  and  told  them. 
George  was  sent  to  see  if  he  could  manage  better  than 
I  had  and  presently  was  back  again  with  the  announce- 
ment : 

*'I  can't  get  a  thing  out  of  her.  She  insists  on  seeing 
you,  father,  and  says  she  won't  go  till  she  does." 

"Bring  her  in,"  growled  the  chief,  and  as  George  dis- 
appeared he  turned  to  Babbitts  and  said,  "Wait  here 
for  a  moment.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  few  more  things 
about  that  girl  last  night." 

Babbitts  drew  back  to  the  window  and  I,  taking  a 
chair  by  the  table,  said,  laughing: 

"She's  probably  been  sued  by  her  landlord  and  wants 
you  to  take  the  case." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  old  man  quietly.  "I'm  curious 
to  see." 

Just  then  the  woman  came  in,  the  child  beside  her, 
and  George  following.  She  looked  at  the  chief  with 
a  steady,  inquiring  gaze,  and  he  rose,  as  urbanely  wel- 
coming as  if  she  were  a  star  client. 

"You  want  to  see  me.  Madam  ?" 

"I  do,"  she  answered,  "if  you're  L'yer  Whitney.  For 
it's  to  no  one  else  I'll  be  goin'  with  what  I'm  bringin'." 

He  assured  her  she'd  found  the  right  man,  and  waved 
her  to  a  chair.    She  sat  down,  drawing  the  boy  against 

77 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


her  knee,  the  chief  opposite,  leaning  a  little  forward  in 
his  chair,  all  encouraging  attention. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said. 

"It's  about  the  Harland  suicide,"  she  answered,  "and 
it's  mj  husband,  Dan  Meagher,  who  drives  a  dray  for 
the  Panama  Fruit  Company,  who's  sent  me  here.  *Go 
to  L'yer  Whitney  and  tell  him,'  he  says  to  me,  'and 
don't  be  sayin'  a  word  to  a  soul,  not  your  own  mother 
if  she  was  above  the  sod  to  hear  ye.'  " 

George,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  table  with  the 
sardonic  smile  he  affects,  suddenly  became  grave  and 
dropped  into  a  chair.  The  chief,  nodding  pleasantly, 
said: 

"The  Harland  suicide,  Mrs.  Meagher;  that's  very 
good.  We'd  like  any  information  you  can  give  us 
about  it." 

The  woman  fetched  up  a  breath  so  deep  it  was  almost 
a  gasp.  With  her  eyes  on  the  old  man  she  bent  for- 
ward, her  words,  with  their  rich  rolling  r's,  singularly 
impressive. 

"It's  an  honest  woman  I  am,  your  Honor,  and  what 
I'll  be  after  tellin'  you  is  God's  truth  for  me  and  for 
Dannie  here,  who's  never  lied  since  the  day  he  was 
born." 

The  little  boy  looked  up  and  spoke,  his  voice  clear 
and  piping,  after  the  fuller  tones  of  his  mother: 

78 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"I'm  not  lying." 

"Let's  hear  this  straight,  Mrs.  Meagher,"  said  the 
chief.  "I'm  a  little  confused.  Is  it  you  or  the  boy  here 
that  knows  something?" 

"ffiTW,"  she  said,  putting  ber  hand  on  the  child's 
shoulder,  "he  seen  something.  It's  this  way,  your 
Honor.  I'm  one  of  the  cleaners  in  the  Massasoit  Build- 
ing. The  three  top  floors  is  mine  and  I  go  on  duty  to 
rid  up  the  offices  from  five  till  eight.  It's  my  habit  to 
take  Dannie  with  me,  he  bein',  as  maybe  you  can  see, 
delicate  since  he  had  the  typhoid,  and  not  allowed  to  go 
to  school  yet  or  run  on  the  street." 

"I  empty  the  trash  baskets,"  piped  up  the  little  boy. 

"Don't  speak,  Dannie,  till  your  evidence  is  wanted," 
said  she.  "On  the  evenin'  of  the  suicide,  L'yer  Whit- 
ney, I  was  doin'  my  chores  on  the  seventeenth  floor,  in 
the  Macauley-Blake  Company's  offices,  they  bein',  as 
you  may  know,  at  the  back  of  the  buildin'.  I  was 
through  with  the  outer  room  by  a  quarter  past  six,  so  I 
turned  off^  the  lights  and  went  into  the  inner  room,  clos- 
in'  the  door,  as  I  had  the  window  open  and  didn't  want 
the  cold  air  on  the  boy." 

"You  left  him  in  the  room  that  looks  over  the  houses 
to  the  front  of  the  Black  Eagle  Building?" 

"By  the  window,"  spoke  up  the  little  boy.  "I  was 
leanin'  there  lookin'  out." 

79 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"That's  it,"  said  she.  "The  office  was  dark  and  as 
I  shut  the  door  I  seen  him,  by  the  sill,  peerin'  over 
some  books  they  had  there."  She  took  the  little  boy's 
hand  and,  fondling  it  in  hers,  said,  "Now,  Dannie,  tell 
his  Honor  what  you  saw,  same  as  you  tolt  Paw  and 
me  this  day."  She  turned  to  the  chief.  "It's  no  lie  he'll 
be  after  sayin',  L'yer  Whitney,  I'll  swear  that  on  the 
Book." 

The  little  boy  raised  his  big  eyes  to  the  old  man's 
and  spoke,  clearly  and  slowly : 

"I  was  lookin'  acrost  at  the  Black  Eagle  Building,  at 
the  windows  opposite.  On  the  floor  right  level  with 
me  they  was  all  dark,  'cept  the  hall  one.  That  was  lit 
and  I  could  see  down  into  the  hall,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  it.  Suddent  a  door  opened,  the  one  nearest  to 
the  window,  and  a  head  come  out  and  looked  quick  up 
and  down  and  then  acrost  to  our  building.  Then  it 
went  in  and  I  was  thinkin'  how  it  couldn't  see  me 
because  it  was  all  dark  where  I  was,  when  the  door 
opened  again,  slow,  and  an  awful  sort  of  thing  came 
out." 

He  stopped  and  turned  to  his  mother,  shrinking  and 
scared.    She  put  her  arm  round  him  and  coaxed  softly : 

"Don't  be  afeart,  darlint.  Go  on,  now,  and  teU  it 
like  you  tolt  it  to  me  and  Paw  at  breakfast." 

The  old  man  was  motionless,  his  face  as  void  of  ex- 

8Q 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


pression  as  a  stone  mask.  George  was  leaning  forward, 
his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  eyes  on  the  boy  in  a  fixed 
stare. 

"What  was  it  you  saw,  Dannie?"  said  the  chief,  his 
voice  sounding  deep  as  an  organ  after  that  moment  of 
breathless  hush.     "Don't  fie  afraid  to  tell  us." 

The  boy  spoke  again,  pressing  back  against  his 
mother  : 

"It  was  like  an  animal  creepin'  along,  crouched 
down " 

"Show  the  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs.  Meagher,  and  with- 
out more  urging  the  little  chap  slid  down  to  the  floor 
on  his  hands  and  knees  and  began  padding  about,  bent 
as  low  as  he  could.  It  was  a  queer  sight,  believe  me — 
the  tiny  figure  creeping  stealthily  along  the  carpet — 
and  we  four  men,  all  but  the  old  man,  now  up  on  our 
feet,  leaning  forward  to  watch  with  faces  of  amaze- 
ment. 

"That  way,"  he  said,  looking  up  sideways.  "Just 
like  that — awful  quick  from  the  door  to  the  window." 
He  rose  and  went  back  to  his  mother,  cowering  against 
her.  "I  thought  it  was  some  kind  of  bear,  and  I  was 
terrible  scairt.  I  was  so  scairt  I  couldn't  raise  a  yell 
or  make  a  break  or  nothin'.  I  stood  lookin'  and  I 
saw  it  was  a  man,  and "  He  stopped,  terrified  mem- 
ory halting  the  words. 

81 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


She  had  to  coax  again,  her  arm  around  him,  her  face 
close  to  his. 

"Go  on,  Dannie  boy,  you  want  the  gintlemin  to  think 
you're  the  brave  man  that  ye  are.  Go  on,  now,  lamb." 
Over  his  head  she  looked  at  the  chief  and  said,  "It's  a 
sight  might  have  froze  the  heart  of  anyone,  let  alone 
a  pore,  sickly  kid." 

The  boy  went  on,  almost  in  a  whisper: 

"He  had  another  man  on  his  back,  still,  like  he  was 
dead,  with  his  arms  hangin'  down.  I  could  see  the  hands 
draggin'  along  the  floor  like  they  was  bits  of  rope.  And 
when  he  got  to  the  window,  quick — I  never  seen  noth- 
in'  so  quick — the  one  that  was  creepin'  slid  the  other 
on  to  the  sill.  He  done  it  this  way."  He  crouched 
down  on  his  knees  with  his  hands  raised  over  his  head 
and  made  a  forward,  shoving  motion.  "Pushing  him 
out.  Just  for  a  second  I  could  see  the  dead  one,  acrost 
the  sill,  with  his  head  down,  and  then  the  other  gave 
a  big  shove  and  he  went  over." 

There  was  a  moment  of  dead  silence  in  which  you 
could  hear  the  tick  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel.  I  had 
an  impression  of  Babbitts,  his  face  full  of  horror,  and 
George,  bent  across  the  table,  biting  on  his  under  lip. 
Only  the  old  man  held  his  pose  of  bland  stolidity. 

"And  what  did  the  man — the  one  that  was  on  his 
knees — do  then,  Dannie.^"  he  asked  gently. 

82 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"He  got  up  and  made  a  break  for  the  door. 
Whisht,"  he  shot  one  palm  across  the  other  with  a 
swift  gesture — "like  that,  and  went  in." 

"Which  door  was  that — which  side?" 

Dannie  waved  his  right  hand.. 

"This  one — the  door  he  came  out  of — this  side !" 

"The  Azalea  Woods  Estates,"  came  from  George. 

The  old  man  gave  him  a  quick  glance,  a  razor-sharp 
reproof,  and  turning  to  Dannie  held  out  his  hand. 

"Well,  Dannie,  that's  a  wonderful  story,  and  it's 
great  the  way  you  tell  it.  Let's  shake  on  it."  The 
little  boy  stepped  forward  and  put  his  small,  thin  paw 
in  the  chief's  big  palm.  "You've  told  it  to  all  the  fel- 
lows on  the  block,  haven't  you?" 

Dannie  shook  his  head. 

"I  ain't  told  it  to  a  soul  till  this  mornin',  when  I 
couldn't  hold  it  no  more  and  let  out  to  Paw  and 
Maw." 

"Why  didn't  you  teU?" 

"I  was  scairt.  I  didn't  want  to.  I  kep'  dreamin' 
of  it  at  night  and  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  And  this 
mornin'  when  Paw  and  Maw  was  gassin'  about  the  sui- 
cide I  just  busted  out.    I — I "  his  lips  trembled  and 

the  tears  welled  into  his  eyes. 

"It's  thrue  what  he  says,  every  word,"  said  Mrs. 
Meagher.    "It's  sick  he's  been  ever  sence,  and  me  crazy 

83 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


not  knowin'  what  was  eatin'  into  him.  And  this  mornin' 
he  breaks  into  a  holler  and  out  it  comes." 

As  she  was  speaking  the  old  man  patted  the  thin 
hand,  eyeing  the  child  with  a  deep,  quiet  kindliness. 

"You're  a  wise  boy,  Dannie,"  said  he.  "And  you 
want  to  keep  on  being  a  wise  boy  and  not  tell  anyone. 
Will  you  answer  a  question  or  two,  saying  when  you 
don't  know  or  don't  remember?  I'll  see  that  you  get 
something  pretty  nice  afterward,  if  you  do." 

"Yes,"  says  Dannie,  "I'll  answer." 

"Could  you  see  what  the  man  looked  like,  the  man 
that  was  alive?" 

"No — I  wasn't  near  enough.  They  was  like — 
like" — ^he  paused  and  then  said,  his  eyes  showing  a 
troubled  bewilderment — "like  shadows." 

"He  would  have  seen  the  figures  in  silhouette," 
George  explained,  "black  against  the  lit  window." 

"That's  it,"  he  turned  eagerly  to  George.  "And 
it  was  acrost  the  street  and  the  houses  on  Broad- 
way." 

"Um,"  said  the  chief,  "too  far  for  any  detail.  Well, 
this  man,  the  one  that  went  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
was  he  a  fat  man?" 

The  child  shook  his  head. 

"No,  sir.     He — ^he  was  just  like  lots  of  men." 

"Now  look  over  these  three   gentlemen,"  said   the 

84> 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


chief,  waving  his  hand  at  us,     "Which  of  them  looks 
most  like  him?    Not  their  faces,  but  their  bodies." 

Dannie  looked  at  us  critically  and  carefully.  His 
eye  passed  quickly  over  Babbitts,  medium  height,  broad 
and  stocky,  lingered  on  me,  six. feet  two  with  the  long- 
est reach  in  my  class  at  Harvard,  then  brought  up  on 
George,  who  tips  the  beam  at  one  hundred  and  sixty 
pounds. 

"Most  like  him,"  he  said,  pointing  a  little  finger  at 
the  junior  member  of  Whitney  &  Whitney.  "Skinny 
like  him." 

"Very  well  done,  Dannie,"  said  the  old  man,  then 
turned  to  George.  "Lightly  built.  He  would  have 
no  means  of  judging  height." 

George  took  up  the  interrogation : 

'*Could  you  see  at  all  what  kind  of  clothes  he  wore?" 

"No — he  went  too  quick." 

"And  he  looked  over  at  your  building?" 

"Yes — but  he  couldn't  have  seen  anything.  Maw's 
floors  was  all  dark." 

"Did  you  see  him  come  out  of  the  room  again?" 

"No.  I  was  that  scairt  I  crep'  away  back  to  where 
Maw  was." 

"Come  in  to  me  like  a  specter,"  said  Mrs.  Mea- 
gher. 

"And  not  a  word  out  of  him  only  that  he  was  cold." 

85 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Well,  Mrs.  Meagher,"  said  the  chief,  "this  is  a  great 
service  you've  done  us,  and  it's  up  to  us  to  do  some- 
thing for  you." 

"Oh,  your  Honor,"  she  answered,  "it's  not  pay  I'm 
wantin'.  It  was  my  dooty  and  I  done  it.  Now,  Dan- 
nie boy,  it's  time  we  was  gettin'  home." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  old  man.  "You  say  your 
husband's  a  drayman.  Tell  him  to  come  and  see  me — •■ 
my  home's  the  best  place — this  evening  if  possible.  And 
tell  him — and  this  applies  as  much  to  you" — his  bushy 
brows  came  down  over  his  eyes  and  his  expression  grew 
lowering — "not  to  mention  one  word  of  this.  If  you 
keep  your  mouths  shut,  your  future's  made.  If  you 
blab" — ^he  raised  a  warning  finger  and  shook  it  fiercely 
in  her  face — "God  help  you." 

Mrs.  Meagher  looked  terrified.  She  clutched  Dannie 
and  drew  him  against  her  skirts. 

"It's  not  a  word  I'll  be  after  sayin',  your  Honor," 
she  faltered.     "I'll  swear  it  before  the  priest." 

"That's  right.  I'll  see  the  priest  about  it."  He 
suddenly  changed,  straightened  up,  and  was  the  genial 
old  gentleman  who  could  put  the  shyest  witness  at  his 
ease.  "The  little  chap  doesn't  look  strong.  New 
York's  no  place  for  him.  He  ought  to  run  wild  in  the 
country  for  a  bit." 

"Ah,  don't  be  after  sayin'  it,"  she  shook  her  head 

86 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


wistfully.  "That's  what  the  doctor  tolt  me.  But  what 
can  a  poor  scrubwoman  do?" 

"Not  as  much,  majbe,  as  a  lawyer  can.  You  leave 
that  to  me.  I'll  see  he  goes  and  you'll  be  along.  All 
I  ask  in  return  is" — he  put  his  finger  on  his  lips — 
"just  one  word — silence." 

She  tried  to  say  something,  but  laughing  and  pooh- 
poohing  her  attempts  at  thanks,  he  walked  her  to  the 
door. 

**There — there — no  back-talk.  Hustle  along  now, 
and  don't  forget,  I  want  to  see  Dan  Meagher  tonight. 
Ask  the  clerk  in  the  waiting  room  for  the  address. 
Good-bye."  He  shook  hands  with  her  and  patted 
Dannie  on  the  shoulder.  "A  month  on  a  farm  and  you 
won't  know  this  boy.    Good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you !" 

As  the  door  shut  on  her  his  whole  expression  and 
manner  changed.  He  turned  back  to  the  room,  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  his  shoulders  hunched,  his 
eyes,  under  the  drooping  thatch  of  his  hair,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  of  us. 

"Well,  gentlemen?"  he  said. 

"Murder r^  came  from  George  on  a  rising  breath. 

"Murder,"  repeated  his  father.  "A  fact  that  I've 
suspected  since  the  inquest." 


CHAPTER  VII 
MOLLY  TELLS  THE  STORY 

jm  /WVUBERl     Will  I  ever  forget  that  night 

/  w/ m  when  Babbitts  told  me,  the  two  of  us  shut 
-^  r-m.  in  our  room!  I  can  see  his  face  now, 
thrust  out  toward  me,  all  strained  and  staring,  his  voice 
almost  a  whisper.  As  for  me — I  guess  I  looked  like 
the  Village  Idiot,  with  my  mouth  dropped  open  and  my 
eyes  bulged  so  you  could  cut  'em  off  with  a  shingle. 

The  next  day  the  same  word  went  out  to  us  that 
was  given  to  Mrs.  Meagher — sUence.  Not  a  whisper, 
not  a  breath!  Neither  the  public,  nor  the  press,  nor 
the  police  must  get  an  inkling.  All  there  was  to  go 
upon  was  the  story  of  a  child,  and  until  this  could  be 
confirmed  by  other  facts,  the  outside  world  was  to 
know  nothing.  If  corroborative  evidence  were  found 
it  would  be  the  biggest  sensation  the  Whitney  office  had 
ever  had.  Babbitts  was  promised  the  scoop,  but  if  he 
gave  away  a  thing  before  the  time  was  ripe  it  would 
be  the  end  of  us  as  far  as  Whitney  &  Whitney  went. 

Six  shared  the  secret,  the  Whitney s,  father  and  son, 
the  Babbittses,  husband   and  wife,  Jack  Reddy  and 

88 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


O'Mally.  In  twenty-four  hours  Mrs.  Meagher  and 
Dannie  were  spirited  off  to  a  farm  up-state  and  the 
old  man  had  a  seance  with  Meagher,  the  drayman,  that 
shut  his  mouth  tighter  than  a  gag. 

The  six  of  us  were  organized  into  a  sort  of  band 
to  work  on  the  case.  It  seemed  to  me  we  were  like  moles, 
tunneling  along  underground,  not  a  soul  on  the  surface 
knowing  we  were  there,  and  if  they'd  found  it  out,  not 
able  to  make  a  guess  what  we  were  after. 

O'Mally  and  I  were  the  only  two  that  were  put  right 
on  the  scene  of  the  crime.  I  was  to  stay  on  the  Black 
Eagle  switchboard  to  pick  up  all  I  could  from  Troop, 
the  boy  who  operated  the  one  elevator  which  was  run- 
ning that  night — to  find  out  about  the  people  he  had 
taken  up  or  down  from  the  seventeenth  floor  between 
^ve^  and  six-thirty.  O'Mally  was  commissioned  to  ex- 
amine the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  offices,  and  get  next  to 
Mrs.  Hansen,  cleaner  of  the  top  floors,  and  see  if  she 
had  seen  anything  on  the  evening  of  January  fifteenth. 

What  we  ferreted  out  I'll  put  down  as  clearly  and 
quickly  as  I  can.  It  may  not  be  interesting,  but  to  un- 
derstand a  case  that  was  interesting,  it's  necessary  to 
know  it. 

O'Mally  got  busy  right  off^ — quicker  than  I,  but  he 
knew  better  how  to  do  it.  The  Azalea  Woods  Estates 
was  vacated  and  that  was  easy.    His  search  only  gave 

89 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


up  one  thing,  two  dark  spots  on  the  floor  of  the  private 
office  close  by  the  window.  With  a  chisel  he  shaved  off 
the  wood  on  which  they  were  and  it  was  sent  to  a  chemist 
who  analyzed  the  spots  as  blood. 

What  he  heard  from  Mrs.  Hansen  was  even  more  im- 
portant, and  he  did  it  well,  worming  it  out  of  her  in 
easy  talk  about  the  suicide,  I'll  boil  it  down  to  simple 
facts,  not  as  I  heard  him  tell  it  in  Mr.  Whitney's  den, 
with  bits  about  Mrs.  Hansen  that  you  couldn't  help 
but  laugh  at. 

On  the  night  of  January  the  fifteenth  she  was  at 
work  on  the  seventeenth  floor  at  half-past  five.  Behind 
the  elevators,  round  on  the  side  corridor  where  the 
service  stairs  go  down,  is  a  sink  closet  where  the  clean- 
ers kept  their  brooms  and  dusters.  Having  finished 
with  a  rear  office  she  went  into  this  closet  to  empty 
and  refill  her  pails,  at  a  little  before  six.  While  in 
there  she  could  hear  nothing  because  of  the  running 
water,  but  when  she  turned  it  off  she  heard  steps  com- 
ing down  the  stairs  on  the  Broadway  side.  She  had 
moved  out  into  the  hall  when  the  steps  stopped,  and 
rounding  the  corner  by  the  elevators  she  saw  Mr.  Har- 
land  standing  at  the  door  of  the  Azalea  Woods  Es- 
tates offices. 

He  was  in  profile  and  didn't  see  her,  and  didn't  hear 
her,  she  said,  because  she  wore  old  soft  shoes  that 

90 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


made  no  sound.  Just  as  she  caught  sight  of  him  she 
remembered  she'd  left  her  duster  in  the  sink  closet  and 
went  back  for  it.  When  she  returned  to  the  main  cor- 
ridor he  was  gone,  and  she  went  into  the  Hudson  Elec- 
trical Company's  offices,  staying  there  till  six- twenty — 
she  noted  the  time  by  a  nickel  clock  on  one  of  the  desks. 
She  decided  to  do  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  rooms  next 
but  on  trying  the  door  found  it  was  locked.  This  didn't 
bother  her,  as  she  had  found  it  so  once  or  twice  before 
during  the  past  month.  She  then  went  down  the  hall 
into  a  rear  suite  in  which  she  was  shut  when  the  suicide 
occurred. 

This  fixed  the  fact  that  Harland  had  gone  straight 
from  his  own  office,  down  the  stairs  on  the, Broadway 
side,  into  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates,  and  that  he  or 
somebody  in  there  had  locked  the  door. 

Who  had  let  him  in?  What  man  had  access  to  these 
offices?  Can  you  see  me  as  I  sat  listening  to  O'Mally 
and  thinking  of  the  fresh  guy  who'd  wanted  to  take 
me  out  to  dinner?    Lord,  I  felt  queer! 

And  I  felt  queerer,  considerable  queerer,  when  the 
day  after  that  I  got  hold  of  Troop — and  information. 
Wait  till  I  tell  you. 

Mr.  Whitney  had  told  me  to  take  my  time,  there 
was  no  rush,  and  above  all  things  not  to  raise  the  ghost 
of  a  suspicion  in  Troop's  mind.     So  I  went  about  it 

91 


The  Block  Eagle  Mystery 


very  foxy,  lying  low  in  my  little  den  behind  the  ele- 
vators. But  when  I'd  see  Troop,  lounging  in  the  door 
of  his  car,  I'd  flash  a  smile  at  him  and  get  a  good- 
natured  grin  back. 

The  evening  after  O'Mally'd  brought  in  his  stuff  I 
thought  the  time  was  ready  to  gather  in  mine.  So  after 
I'd  put  on  my  hat  and  coat  I  stood  loitering  by  the 
desk,  keeping  one  eye  on  the  door.  Troop  came  off 
duty  at  half-past  six,  and  regular,  a  few  minutes  after 
that,  I'd  see  him  sprinting  down  the  hall  for  the  main 
entrance. 

As  he  came  in  sight  I  took  up  my  purse,  and  he,  look- 
ing in  as  I  knew  he  would,  caught  me  just  right.  There 
I  was  staring  distracted  into  it  and  scrabbling  round  in 
the  inside,  pulling  out  handkerchiefs  and  samples  and 
buttons  and  latchkeys. 

"Hello,"  says  he,  drawing  up,  "you  look  like  you'd 
lost  something." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Troop,"  I  answered,  "how  fortunate  you 
happened  along!  I  have  lost  something,  my  carfare. 
And  I  ain't  got  another  cent  but  a  ten-dollar  bill.  Will 
you  come  across  with  a  nickel  till  tomorrow?" 

"Sure  I  will,  and  more  too!  Which  way  do  you 
go?" 

"Uptown,"  said  I.  Neither  he  nor  anyone  else  in 
the  building  knew  where  I  lived  or  who  I  was.    Miss 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Morgenthau,  temporarily  in  charge,  was  all  they  had 
on  me. 

"That's  my  direction — One  Hundred  and  Fifty-ninth 
Street,  subway." 

Now  I  didn't  see  myself  sleuthing  as  I  hung  from  a 
strap  in  the  sub.  But  in  this  world  you  got  to  grab 
your  chance  when  it  comes,  so,  "The  subway  for  mine," 
I  said,  speaking  in  a  cheerful,  unmarried  voice,  and  out 
we  trotted  into  the  street. 

It  was  the  thick  of  the  rush  hours  and  we  were  in  the 
thick  of  the  rush.  Like  we  were  leaves  on  a  raging  tor- 
rent we  were  whirled  through  the  gate,  swept  on  to 
the  platform  and  carried  into  the  car.  Then  the  con- 
ductor came  and  pressed  on  us,  leaned  and  squeezed, 
and  when  he'd  mashed  us  in,  slid  the  door  shut  for  fear 
we'd  burst  out  and  flood  the  platform. 

Troop  got  hold  of  a  strap  and  I  got  hold  of  Troop, 
and,  dangling  together  like  a  pair  of  chickens  hung  up 
to  grow  tender,  I  opened  on  the  familiar  subject  of  the 
Harland  suicide.  It  wasn't  as  hard  as  I  thought,  for 
what  with  people  clawing  their  way  out  and  prying 
their  way  in,  questions  and  answers  were  bound  to  be 
straight,  with  no  trimmings. 

"Where  were  you  when  it  happened.?"  I  said,  getting 
a  jiujitsu  grip  on  the  front  of  his  coat. 

"In  the  car,  halfway  down.     Didn't  know  a  thing 

93 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


till  I  got  to  the  ground  floor  and  saw  the  stampede." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Ran  for  the  street — forgot  my  job,  forgot  there 
was  only  one  car  running,  forgot  everything  and  made 
la  break.  Every  passenger  did  the  same — seized  us  all 
same  as  a  panic,  all  racin'  and  hoUerin'.  I  was  right 
behind  Mr.  Ford." 

It  was  sooner  than  I'd  expected.  The  jmnp  I  gave 
was  lost  in  that  crush,  just  as  the  look  that  started  out 
on  my  face  wouldn't  be  noticed,  or,  if  it  was,  be  set 
down  to  a  stamp  on  my  toe. 

"Was  he  in  the  car  with  you?" 

*'Yes,  I'd  just  gone  up  to  the  seventeenth  floor  for 
him.  Here,  you  want  to  get  a  firm  holt  on  me  or  you'll 
be  swep'  away." 

"I'm  holding,"  I  gasped,  and  believe  me  I  was,  for  a 
line  of  people  coming  out  like  a  bit  of  the  Johnstown 
Flood  was  like  to  tear  me  loose  from  my  moorings. 
*'Then  he  must  have  been  in  the  elevator  when  Harland 
jumped.?*" 

"That's  it.  It  was  his  ring  brought  me  up  to  the 
seventeenth  floor.  He  got  in  and  it  was  while  we  was 
goin'  down  the  body  fell.  Struck  the  street  a  few  min- 
utes before  we  reached  the  bottom." 

We  were  whizzing  through  the  blackness  of  the  tun- 
nel to  Times  Square.     The  overflow  that  had  drained 

94 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


off  at  Forty-second  Street  had  loosened  things  up  a 
little.  I  unwrapped  myself  from  around  Troop,  taking 
hold  of  the  strap  over  his  hand,  and  pigeonholing  what 
he'd  said.  In  that  boiling  pack  of  people  I  was  cold 
and  shivery  down  the  spine. 

"Did  Mr.  Ford  run  out  in  the  street  like  the  rest.?" 

*^Did  he.?  He  done  a  Marathon!  I  couldn't  make  a 
dint  on  the  crowd,  but  he  shoved  through,  and  when  he 
come  back  he  was  all  broke  up.  'What  do  you  make  of 
that.?'  says  he.  'There's  a  man  committed  suicide  and 
they  say  it's  HoUings  Harland.'  " 

"Broke  up !  I  shouldn't  wonder.  He  was  in  the  of- 
fice late  wasn't  he — till  half-past  six?" 

"He  was  that  night,  and  he  had  been  once  or  twice 
before  this  last  month.  Told  me  he  was  working  over- 
time, though  if  you'd  asked  me  I'd  have  said  he  wasn't 
the  kind  to  do  more  than  his  salary  called  for." 

"No,"  I  said,  thinking  hard  underneath.  "Seems  sort 
of  loaferish." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  say  that,  but  easy,  good-humored — > 
you  know  the  sort.  But  lately  he's  been  on  the  job, 
busy,  I  guess,  gettin'  ready  for  the  collapse.  The  night 
of  the  suicide  he  left  early,  soon  after  Miss  Barry. 
And  a  little  after  six — ten  or  fifteen  minutes  maybe — 
he  come  bustling  back  sayin'  he'd  forgotten  some 
papers  and  for  me  to  shoot  him  up  quick." 

95 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


We  slowed  up  for  Sixty-ninth  Street  and  two  girls 
in  the  middle  of  the  car  began  a  football  rush  for  the 
door.  It  was  a  good  excuse  to  be  quiet,  to  get  it 
straight  in  my  head :  Ford  left  early,  came  back,  went 
into  the  office  after  Harland,  left  probably  three  or 
four  minutes  before  the  body  was  flung  from  the  win- 
dow. This  is  the  way  I  was  thinking  while  we  hung 
easy  from  our  strap,  swinging  out  sideways  like  the 
woman  in  "Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  Tonight,"  clinging 
to  the  tongue  of  the  bell. 

"Now  that  was  real  conscientious  of  him,"  I  said, 
suspended  over  a  large  fat  man  and  crushing  down 
the  paper  he  was  trying  to  read,  "coming  back  for 
papers  he'd  forgotten." 

"It  sure  was,"  answered  Troop.  "Many  a  man  would 
have  let  them  wait." 

The  fat  man  dropped  the  paper  and  raised  his  eyes 
to  me  with  a  look  like  he  was  determined  to  be  patient 
— but  why  did  I  do  it  ? 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  says  I,  "but  it's  not  me  that's 
spoiling  your  homeward  journey,  it's  the  congested  con- 
dition of  the^mpire  City."  And  then  to  Troop,  pleas- 
ant and  regretful,  "Dear,  dear,  that's  a  lesson  not  to 
pass  judgment  on  your  feUow  creatures.  He  must  have 
a  strong  sense  of  duty.    I  suppose  you  waited  for  him?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Troop.    "That's  the  time  I'm  on  the 

96 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


jump  with  all  the  offices  emptying,  and  especially  that 
night  with  the  other  elevator  out  of  commission.  Be- 
sides it  wouldn't  have  been  no  use,  for  he  was  in  there 
quite  a  while.  It  wasn't  till  nearly  half-past  six  he 
rang  for  the  car." 

**Pity  he  didn't  wait  a  few  minutes  longer.  Maybe 
if  Mr.  Harland  had  seen  him  he'd  have  given  up  the 
idea  of  suicide." 

"I've  thought  of  that  myself,  for  accordin'  to  the 
inquest,  Harland  was  round  that  corridor  for  a  half- 
hour,  like  as  not  pacin'  up  and  down  while  Ford  was 
sittin'  in  the  office  near  by.  Strange,  ain't  it,  the  way 
things  happen  in  this  world?" 

It  was — a  great  deal  stranger  than  he  thought. 

For  a  moment  I  didn't  say  anything.  I  was  kind  of 
quivering  in  my  insides  with  the  excitement  of  it. 
O'Mally  hadn't  got  anything  to  beat  this.  We  swung 
lazily  back  and  forth,  my  hand  clasped  below  Troop's, 
and  the  fat  man  giving  up  in  despair.  Only  when  my 
wrist  bag  caught  him  on  the  hat,  he  gave  me  one  re- 
proachful look  and  then  settled  the  hat  hard  on  his 
head  to  show  me  what  he  was  suffering. 

The  train  began  to  slow  up,  white-tiled  walls  glided 
past  the  windows,  and  the  conductor  opened  the  door 
and  yelled,  "Ninety-sixth  Street." 

It  had  worked  out  just  right.     I  had  my  informa- 

97 


TJie  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


tion  and  here  was  where  I  got  off.  I  thanked  Troop  for 
the  ride  I'd  had  off  him,  told  him  I'd  give  him  his 
nickel  tomorrow,  and  forging  to  the  door  like  the 
Oregon  going  round  Cape  Horn,  scrambled  out. 

Himself  wasn't  at  home  to  tell  things  to — it  was  one 
of  his  late  nights — so  I  took  a  call  for  Mr.  Whitney's 
house  and  told  him  I'd  got  the  stuff  for  him — real 
stuff.  He  said  to  come  down  that  evening  at  half-past 
eight,  they'd  all  be  there.  And  after  a  glass  of  milk 
and  a  soda  cracker — I  hadn't  time  or  appetite  for  more 
— out  I  lit,  as  excited  as  if  I  was  going  to  a  six-reel 
movie. 

I  was  late  and  ran  panting  up  the  steps  of  the  big, 
grand  house  in  the  West  Fifties.  I'd  been  there  be- 
fore, and  as  I  stood  waiting  in  the  vestibule  I  couldn't 
but  smile  thinking  of  that  other  time  when  I  was  so 
scared,  and  Himself — ^he  was  "Mr.  Babbitts"  then — 
had  had  to  jolly  me  up.  He  didn't  know  me  as  well 
then  as  he  does  now,  bless  his  dear,  faithful  heart ! 

The  unnatural  solemn  butler  wasn't  on  the  job 
tonight.  Mr.  George  opened  the  door  for  me  and 
showed  me  into  that  same  room  off  the  hall,  with  the 
gold-mounted  furniture  and  the  pale-colored  rugs  and 
the  lights  in  crystal  bunches  along  the  walls.  A  fire 
was  burning  in  the  grate,  its  red  reflection  leaping  along 
the  uncovered  spaces  of  floor,  polished  and  smooth  as 

98 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


ice.  On  a  center  table,  all  gilt  and  glass,  was  a  com- 
mon student  lamp,  looking  cheap  and  mean  in  that 
quiet,  rich,  glittering  room,  and  beside  it  were  some 
sheets  of  paper  and  several  pencils.  Old  Mr.  Whitney 
and  George  were  there,  also  Jack  Reddj,  but  O'Mally 
hadn't  come  yet. 

I  told  them  what  Troop  had  said  and  they  listened 
as  silent  as  the  grave,  not  batting  an  eje.  while  I  spoke. 
You  didn't  have  to  guess  at  what  they  thought.  It  was 
in  the  air.     The  first  real  move  had  been  made. 

When  I  finished,  Mr.  George,  who  had  been  making 
notes  on  one  of  the  bits  of  paper,  threw  down  his  pencil, 
and  gave  a  long,  soft  whistle.  The  old  man,  sitting  by 
the  fire  looking  into  it,  his  hands  clasped  loosely  to- 
gether, the  fingers  moving  round  each  other — which 
was  a  way  he  had  when  he  was  thinking — said  very 
quiet : 

"Thank  you,  Molly — you've  done  well." 

"This  puts  Ford  in  the  center  of  the  stage,"  said 
Mr.  George,  then  turning  to  his  father,  "Pretty  con- 
clusive, eh.  Governor?" 

The  old  man  grunted  without  looking  up,  his  face  in 
the  firelight,  heavy  and  brooding. 

Jack  rose  and  leaning  over  Mr.  George's  shoulder 
looked  at  the  scribbled  notes : 

"Left  soon  after  the  Barry  girl,  came  back  about 

99 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


6.15  and  went  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  offices. 
That  would  have  been  about  fifteen  to  twenty  minutes 
after  Harland.  Came  out  about  half-past  six  and  was 
in  the  elevator  when  the  body  fell." 

"Positive  proof  that  he  was  in  the  rooms  with  Har- 
land," said  Mr.  George,  "and  equally  positive  proof 
he  was  not  the  man  seen  by  the  Meagher  child." 

"Evidently  two  men,"  said  Jack. 

*'Two  men,"  echoed  Mr.  George.  Then  turned  to 
me,  "Where  was  Miss  Whitehall.?  Did  this  Troop 
fellow  say  anything  about  when  she  left.?" 

Jack  looked  up  from  the  notes  and  cast  a  quick, 
sharp  glance  at  me. 

"She'd  gone  already,  of  course.?"  he  said. 

*'Yes,  she'd  gone,"  I  answered.  "Anyway,  lola  Barry 
said  she  always  went  before  six."  Then  in  answer  to 
Mr.  George,  "I  didn't  ask  Troop  anything  about  her. 
I  didn't  think  there  was  any  need  and  I  was  afraid  I'd 
get  him  curious  if  I  wanted  to  know  too  much." 

"Good  girl,"  came  from  the  old  man  in  a  rumbling 
growl. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  With 
an  exclamation  of  "O'Mally,"  Mr.  George  jumped  up 
and  went  into  the  hall.  It  was  O'Mally,  red  as  a  lob- 
ster, and  with  an  important  roll  to  his  walk.  He  stood 
in  the  door  and  looked  at  the  old  man  in  a  triumphant 

100 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


way  till  you'd  suppose  he'd  got  the  murderer  outside 
chained  to  the  door  handle.  Babbitts,  who'd  come  to 
know  him  well  on  the  trip  to  Rochester,  said  he  was  a 
first-rate  chap  and  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  if  you  could 
get  over  his  taking  himself  so  dead  serious. 

.When  he  heard  my  story  some  of  the  starch  was 
taken  out  of  him,  but  I  will  say  he  was  so  interested 
that,  after  the  first  shock,  he  forgot  to  be  jealous  and 
was  as  keen  as  mustard. 

"Two  men  sure  enough,"  he  agreed.  "And  two  men 
who  operated  together,  one  of  them  in  that  back  room." 

"How  do  you  make  that  out?"  asked  Jack. 

"I'll  show  you — I've  been  busy  this  afternoon."  He 
looked  round,  selected  a  gold-legged  chair  and  pulling 
it  to  the  table,  sat  down,  and  taking  a  fountain  pen 
from  his  pocket,  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him. 
"Right  next  to  the  church,  as  you  may  remember,  there 
are  three  houses,  dwellings.  The  one  nearest  the  church 
is  occupied  by  a  private  party,  the  two  beyond  have 
been  thrown  together  and  are  run  as  a  boarding  house. 
The  last  of  the  two  has  a  rear  extension  built  out  to 
the  end  of  the  lot.  The  day  we  examined  the  Azalea 
Woods  Estates  I  saw  that  the  windows  of  that  extension 
commanded  the  side  wall  of  the  Black  Eagle  Building. 

"This  afternoon  I  went  to  the  boarding  house,  said 
I  was  a  writer  looking  for  a  quiet  place  to  work,  and 

101 


TKe  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


'>^"^ 


asked  if  they  had  an  empty  room  in  the  extension.  They 
had  one,  not  yet  vacated,  but  to  be  in  February.  It 
was  occupied  by  an  old  lady — ^Miss  Darnley — who  be- 
ing there  gave  me  permission  to  see  it. 

"Now  here's  where  I  get  busy,"  he  drew  the  paper 
toward  him  and  began  marking  it  with  long  straight 
lines  and  little  squares.  "Miss  Darnley  is  a  nice  old 
lady  and  some  talker.  We  got  gassing,  as  natural  as 
could  be,  on  the  horrible  suicide  of  Mr.  Harland,  so 
close  by.  She  took  me  to  the  window  and  showed  me 
where  his  offices  were,  and  told  me  how  it  was  her  habit, 
every  evening  as  night  fell,  to  sit  in  that  window  and 
watch  the  lights  start  out,  especially  in  the  Black  Eagle 
Building.  She  sat  there  always  till  half-past  six,  when 
the  first  gong  sounded  for  dinner.  And  if  I  took  the 
room  I  was  to  be  sure  and  go  down  then — the  food  was 
better — she  always  did. 

"By  a  little  skillful  jollying — mostly  surprise  at  her 
powers  of  observation  and  memory — ^I  got  from  her 
some  significant  facts  about  the  lights  on  the  seven- 
teenth floor  of  the  Black  Eagle  Building  on  the  night 
of  January  fifteenth.  The  Harland  suite — she'd  lo- 
cated it  from  the  papers — was  lit  till  she  went  down  to 
dinner.  Wonderful  how  she'd  remembered!  How  was 
the  floor  below — ^bet  a  hat  she  couldn't  remember  that? 
She  could,  and  proud  as  a  peacock,  gave  a  demonstra- 

102 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


tion.  All  dark  as  it  usually  was  at  six,  then  a  light  in 
the  fourth  window — ^Azalea  Woods  Estates,  private 
office.  Then  that  goes  out  and  the  three  front  windows 
are  bright.  Just  before  she  goes  down  to  dinner,  she 
notices  that  every  window  on  the  whole  sweep  of  the 
seventeenth  floor  is  dark  except  that  fourth  one — 
Azalea  Woods  Estates,  private  office." 

He  stopped  and  pushed  the  paper  he'd  been  drawing 
on  across  to  George. 

"Here  it  is,  with  the  time  as  I  make  it  marked  on  each 
window." 

Jack  and  Mr.  George  leaned  down  studying  the  dia- 
gram and  Mr.  Whitney  slowly  rose  and  coming  up  be- 
hind them  looked  at  it  over  their  shoulders.  All  their 
faces,  clear  in  the  lamplight,  with  O'Mally's  red  and 
proud  glancing  sideways  at  the  drawing,  were  intent 
and  frowning. 

"Let's  see  how  the  thing  works  out,"  said  Mr.  George, 
taking  up  a  pencil  and  pulling  a  sheet  of  paper  toward 
him.  Mr.  Whitney  straightened  up  with  a  sort  of  tired 
snort  and  slouched  back  to  his  seat  by  the  fire.  Mr. 
George  began,  figuring  on  the  paper : 

"The  Azalea  Woods  Estates  were  cleared  at  six — all 
lights  out.  At  a  few  minutes  after,  Harland  came  down 
the  stairs  and  entered  them,  going  through  to  the  pri- 
vate office  and  switching  on  the  light,  or  meeting  some- 

il03 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


one  there  who  switched  it  on  as  he  came.  Some  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes  later  Ford  came  in.  That's  evidently 
the  moment,  according  to  your  old  lady,  when  the 
private  office  was  dark  and  the  other  two  lit  up.  Just 
before  6 :30 — time  when  Ford  left — the  front  rooms  are 
all  dark  again.  Good  deal  of  a  mess  to  me."  He  tilted 
back  in  his  chair  so  that  he  could  see  his  father.  "What 
do  you  make  of  it.  Governor?" 

"Let's  hear  what  O'Mally  has  to  say  first,"  said  Mr. 
Whitney.  They  couldn't  see  his  face  which  was  turned 
to  the  fire,  but  I  could,  and  it  had  a  slight,  amused 
smile  on  it. 

O'Mally  sprawled  back  in  his  chair  with  his  chest 
thrown  out: 

"Well,  I  don't  like  to  commit  myself  so  early  in  the 
game,  but  there  are  a  few  things  that  seem  pretty 
clear.  Though  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  were  dark 
when  Harland  came  down  somebody  was  there," 

"Who.?"  asked  Jack. 

O'Mally  looked  sort  of  pitying  at  him: 

"His  murderer.  This  man  didn't  attempt  the  job 
alone.  Must  have  held  Harland  in  talk  in  the  private 
office  till  later  when  Tony  Ford  came  in  and  helped, 
if  he  didn't  do  the  actual  killing.  When  that  was  over 
Ford  went,  leaving  the  other  man  to  carry  out  the  sen- 
sational denouement." 

104 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"What  could  have  been  Ford's  motive?"  said  Mr. 
George.    "Did  he  know  Harland?" 

O'Mally  grinned. 

"Oh,  we'll  find  a  motive  all  right.  Wait  till  we've 
turned  up  the  earth  in  his  tracks.    Wait  a  few  days." 

"This  'other  man,'  O'Mally,"  said  Mr.  Whitney, 
"have  you  any  ideas  about  him?" 

"There  you  got  me  stumped,"  said  the  detective. 
"Of  course  we  don't  know  Harland's  inner  life — had 
he  an  enemy  and  if  so  who?  But — "  he  paused  and 
let  his  glance  move  over  the  faces  of  the  two  young 
men.  "//  the  thing  hadn't  been  physically  impossible 
I'd  have  turned  my  searchlight  eye  on  Johnston 
Barker." 

"Barker!"  exclaimed  Mr.  George.  "But  Barker 
was " 

O'Mally  interrupted  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand — 

"I  said  it  was  physically  impossible." 

The  old  man  got  up,  shaking  himself  like  a  big, 
drowsy  animal  and  came  forward  into  the  lamplight. 

"Nevertheless,  gentlemen,"  he  said  quietly,  "I'm  con- 
vinced that  it  was  Johnston  Barker." 

They  all  gaped  at  him.  I  think  for  the  first  moment 
they  thought  he  had  some  information  they  hadn't  heard 
and  waited  open-mouthed  for  him  to  give  it  to  them. 
But  he  stood  there,  smiling  a  little,  his  eyes  moving 

105 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


from  one  to  the  other,  sort  of  quizzical  as  if  their  sur- 
prise tickled  him. 

"Now,  father,"  said  Mr.  George,  "what's  the  sense 
of  saying  that  when  we  know  that  Barker  was  on  the 
floor  above,  unable  to  get  out  without  being  seen?" 

"I  know,  George,  I  know,"  said  his  father  mildly. 
"I'm  perfectly  willing  to  admit  it.  But  in  that  room 
— on  the  floor  above — there  had  been  a  quarrel  be- 
tween the  two  men.  Since  the  disappearance  of  Barker 
there's  been  a  good  deal  of  speculation  as  to  the  nature 
of  that  quarrel.  That  is,  the  public  has  speculated; 
/  have  felt  sure.  After  the  disappearance  that  quarrel, 
as  far  as  I  could  see,  had  only  one  interpretation — the 
lawyer  had  discovered  the  perfidy  of  his  associate  and 
threatened  exposure.  And  we  all  know  that  the  only 
silent  man  is  a  dead  man." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  O'Mally,  "but  it  doesn't 
get  round  the  fact  that  Barker  couldn't  possibly  have 
been  there  to  instigate  a  murder,  or  help  in  murder  or 
commit  a  murder  himself." 

"Quite  true,"  said  the  old  man,  "as  far  as  we  know 
at  present,  but  you  see  we  know  very  little.  We  can 
speak  with  more  authority  when  we've  made  a  second 
examination  of  the  Whitehall  oflices  and  a  first  one  of 
the  Harland  suite.  That's  up  to  you,  O'Mally,  as  soon 
as  you  can  manage  it.    There's  another  important  mat- 

106 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


ter,  but  I  can't  see  my  way  clear  to  getting  it  just  yet 
— Ford's  own  explanation  of  his  movements  that  eve- 
ning. I'm  curious  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  But 
that'll  have  to  wait  till " 

He  paused  and  Mr.  George  cut  in : 

"We  land  him  in  jail  which  I  hope  will  be  soon." 

"Presently,  presently,"  said  his  father,  turning  to 
the  fire.  "And  now,  gentlemen,  I  think  we'll  end  this 
little  seance.  Just  look  out,  George,  and  see  if  the 
limousine's  there  for  Molly." 

It  was,  and  they  all  drifted  out,  talking  as  they 
went,  making  the  date  and  arranging  the  plan  for  the 
examination  of  the  two  offices. 

I'd  said  good-bye  to  the  old  man  and  was  following 
them  into  the  hall,  when  he  caught  me  by  the  arm  and 
drawing  me  back  from  the  door  said  very  low : 

"You'll  be  on  duty  at  the  Black  Eagle  Building  for 
a  few  days  more.  Try  and  get  Troop  again  and  ask 
him  what  time  Miss  Whitehall  left  that  night.  Don't 
say  a  word  of  what  he  tells  you  to  anyone,  but  as  soon 
as  you  get  it  let  me  know." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MOLLY   TELLS   THE   STORY 

FOR  the  next  few  days  my  moling  was  stopped — 
Troop  was  down  with  grippe  and  a  substitute 
in  his  place.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  sit 
in  my  little  hole  by  the  elevators,  passing  the  time  with 
a  novel  and  the  tray  cloth  I  was  embroidering.  At 
night,  when  Himself  and  I'd  meet  up,  I'd  hear  from 
him  how  O'Mally  was  getting  on  in  his  tunnel.  Bab- 
bitts kept  in  close  touch  with  him,  for  he  had  the  prom- 
ise of  being  along  when  they  made  the  inspection  of  the 
offices. 

It  took  some  days  to  arrange  for  that  and  while 
O'Mally  was  laying  his  wires  for  a  midnight  search,  his 
men  were  tracking  back  over  Tony  Ford's  trail.  It 
didn't  take  them  long  and  there  was  nothing  much 
brought  to  light  when  you  considered  the  kind  of  a 
man  Tony  Ford  must  be. 

For  the  last  three  years  he'd  held  clerkships  in  New 
York  and  Albany  and  once,  for  six  months  in  De- 
troit. From  some  he'd  resigned,  from  others  been 
fired,  not  for  anything  bad,  but  because  he  was  slack 

108 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  lazy,  though  bright  enough.  The  only  thing  they 
turned  up  that  was  shady  was  over  two  years  before 
in  Syracuse,  when  he'd  been  in  a  small  real  estate  busi- 
ness with  a  partner  and  was  said  to  have  absconded 
with  some  of  the  funds.  Nobody  knew  much  of  this 
and  the  man  he'd  been  in  with  .couldn't  be  found.  The 
detectives  said  it  was  so  vague  they  didn't  put  much 
reliance  in  it,  thought  maybe  it  might  be  spite  work. 

Anyway,  it  wasn't  the  record  of  a  desperado,  and 
they'd  have  been  sort  of  baffled  to  fit  his  past  actions 
with  his  present,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  one  thing  that, 
according  to  their  experience,  was  very  significant.  In 
the  last  two  months  he'd  spent  a  lot  more  money  than 
his  salary.  As  Miss  Whitehall's  managing  clerk  he 
had  been  paid  sixty-five  dollars  a  week,  and  he  had  been 
living  at  the  rate  of  a  man  who  has  hundreds.  It  wasn't 
in  his  place — that  was  simple  enough — a  back  room  in 
a  lodging  house — but  he'd  been  a  spender  in  the  white 
lights  of  Broadway.  At  expensive  restaurants  and 
lobster  palaces  he'd  become  a  familiar  figure,  the  gam- 
bling houses  knew  him,  and  he'd  ridden  round  in  motors 
like  a  capitalist. 

"By  the  swath  he's  been  cutting,"  said  Babbitts, 
"you'd  suppose  he  had  an  income  in  five  figures." 

"O  Soapy,"  I  said  horrified.  "They  don't  think  he 
was  paid  for  it.'"' 

109 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Himself  looked  solemn  at  me  and  nodded : 

"That's  exactly  what  they  do  think,  Morningdew. 
He  was  paid  and  evidently  paid  high.  Whoever  the 
'Other  Man'  was  he  could  afford  to  be  extravagant  in 
his  accomplice.  Their  idea  is  that  Ford  was  engaged 
for  his  superior  strength,  and  demanded  a  big  retainer 
in  advance," 

"What  a  terrible  man,"  I  murmured  and  thought  of 
him  standing  in  the  doorway  smiling  at  me  like  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth.    "He's  a  regular  gunman." 

"Worse  than  a  gunman,  for  he's  educated,"  said 
Babbitts.  "Gee,  wasn't  it  a  lucky  thing  lola  got  out 
of  that  place!" 

The  morning  after  that  conversation  I  bid  Babbitts 
good-bye  as  if  he  was  going  to  the  South  Pole,  for  that 
was  the  night  they'd  selected  to  examine  the  two  offices. 
Three  of  them  were  in  it,  O'Mally,  Babbitts,  and  one  of 
O'Mally's  men,  a  chap  called  Stevens.  Himself  would 
turn  up  for  breakfast  if  he  could,  but  if  there  was  any- 
thing pressing  at  the  paper  or  more  developed  than 
they  expected,  I  wasn't  to  look  for  him  till  the  evening 
of  the  next  day. 

I  went  down  to  my  work  and  had  a  dull  time  for 
Troop  was  still  sick  and  there  was  nothing  to  do 
but  now  and  then  jack  in  for  a  call  and  sew  on  my  tray 
cloth.     No  Babbitts  that  night  and  no  Babbitts  for 

110 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


breakfast,  and  me  piling  down  town  for  another  eight 
hours  in  that  dreary  rodm  with  Troop  not  yet  back 
and  not  a  soul  to  speak  to. 

If,  when  I  came  home  that  evening,  I'd  found  Bab- 
bitts still  away  I  believe  I'd  have  forgotten  I  was  a 
lady  sleuth  and  started  a  general  alarm  for  him.  But 
thank  goodness,  I  didn't  need  to.  For  there  he  was 
on  the  Davenport  with  his  muddy  boots  on  the  best 
plush  cushion,  sound  asleep. 

I  didn't  intend  to  wake  him,  but  creeping  round  to 
our  room,  looking  at  him  as  I  crept,  I  ran  into  the  Vic- 
trola  with  a  crash,  and  up  he  sat,  wide  awake,  thanking 
me  sarcastic  for  having  roused  him  in  such  a  delicate, 
tactful  manner. 

In  a  minute  I  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  Daven- 
port— you'll  know  how  I  felt  when  I  tell  you  I  forgot 
his  feet  on  the  cushion — squeezed  up  against  him  and 
staring  into  his  face: 

"Quick — go  ahead!     Did  you  find  anything?" 

*'We  did,  Morningdew." 

"Did  you  get  any  nearer  who  the  other  man  is.''" 

"We  got  next.  The  chief  was  right.  It's  Johnston 
Barker!" 

''Barker!    But,  Soapy- " 

He  raised  a  finger  and  pointed  in  my  face: 

"Don't  begin  with  any  buts  till  you  know.  Now  if 
111 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


you'll  be  quiet  and  listen  like  a  nice  little  girl,  you'll 
see." 

This  is  what  he  told  me  as  I  sat  pressed  up  against 
him,  every  now  and  then  giving  myself  a  hitch  to  keep 
from  sliding  off,  too  eager  listening  to  rise  up  and  get 
a  chair. 

They  gained  access  to  both  offices  without  any 
trouble,  O'Mally  flashing  his  badge  at  the  nightman, 
whom  he'd  already  seen  and  fixed  with  a  story  that  he 
was  after  important  papers  for  the  Copper  Pool  men. 
They  tried  the  Harland  offices  first,  a  cursory  inspec- 
tion showing  nothing.  It  wasn't  till  O'Mally  himself 
got  busy  in  the  rear  room  that  they  began  to  move 
forward.  A  mark  on  the  window  sill  was  what  started 
him.  It  was  a  circular  scrape  about  as  big  round  as 
a  butter  plate  and  was  made,  he  said,  by  the  heel  of  a 
man's  boot. 

Then  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  window  casing, 
the  ledge  and  the  outside  frame.  He  used  a  small 
pocket  searchlight,  also  matches,  dropping  them  as 
they  burned  down  and  examining  every  inch  of  the 
surface.  The  first  thing  he  lit  upon  was  the  cleat  to 
which  the  awning  rope  is  fastened  in  summer.  It  is 
always  screwed  securely  down  to  the  woodwork,  and 
has  to  be  strong  and  firm  to  hold  the  awnings  in  heavy 
winds,  especially  at  that  height.    The  cleat  outside  the 

112 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


window  was  loosened,  and  between  its  base  and  the 
wood  were  a  few  torn  threads  of  rope  that  had  caught 
in  the  head  of  the  upper  screw.  These  threads,  care- 
fully untangled  and  preserved,  were  from  a  new  rope, 
clean  and  yellow,  not  the  gray  wind  and  weather-worn 
shreds  that  would  have  been  left  from  the  summer.  Be- 
low the  cleat  were  scratches,  some  long  and  deep,  some 
wide,  zigzag  scrapes.  By  the  color  of  these  he  said 
they  had  been  recently  made. 

From  there  they  descended  to  the  Whitehall  suite. 
Here  O'Mally  wasted  little  time  on  the  front  rooms  but 
went  direct  to  the  rear  office  and  began  on  the  window. 
Babbitts  and  Stevens  were  ordered  to  search  the  floors 
and  walls,  which  was  easy  as  the  furniture  was  gone 
and  the  place  was  bare  except  for  the  radiator  and 
the  washstand.  I  may  as  well  put  here  that  their 
investigations  produced  nothing. 

But  O'Mally's  did.  He  went  to  work  just  as  he  had 
on  the  floor  above.  This  cleat  was  secure,  but  on  the 
sill  were  more  scratches,  several  long  deep  ones,  and 
on  the  stone  ledge  that  same  round,  circular  mark. 
But  what  he  found  there  that  was  the  vital  thing  was 
a  button.  It  was  lodged  in  a  comer  made  by  one 
of  the  small  wooden  rims  that  go  up  the  window  cas- 
ing parallel  with  the  window.  Anyone  could  have  over- 
looked it,  hardly  visible  in  this  little  angle  where  it 

113 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


might  have  been  sent  by  the  cleaner's  duster  as  she 
flicked  about  the  sill  and  the  ledge.  It  was  a  metal 
button  of  the  kind  used  on  men's  clothes  to  fasten  their 
braces  to,  and  it  bore  round  it  in  raised  letters  the 
name  of  a  fashionable  tailor. 

By  the  time  they  had  done  all  this  it  was  coming  on 
for  morning.  They  slipped  out  of  the  building  and 
went  to  an  all-night  restaurant  near-by  to  wait  for  day- 
light when  O'Mally  had  decided  to  make  an  inspection 
of  the  roof  of  the  church.  He  and  Babbitts  would  do 
this,  while  Stevens,  as  soon  as  the  day  was  far  enough 
advanced,  was  commissioned  to  go  to  the  tailor  whose 
name  was  on  the  button,  and  find  out  when  and  for 
whom  he  had  made  any  suits  having  that  button  upon 
them. 

Meantime  the  day  had  broken  into  morning.  With 
a  caution  to  Babbitts  to  stay  where  he  was  O'Mally 
sauntered  oif  to  see  about  fixing  things  for  getting  on 
the  roof  of  the  church.  Babbitts  was  left  wondering 
whether  they  were  going  to  be  plumbers  or  tin  workers 
or  members  of  the  congregation  admiring  the  sacred 
edifice.  But  when  O'Mally  came  back  he'd  got  a  new 
one  on  Soapy,  for  he'd  depicted  them  to  the  sexton  as 
an  architect  and  builder  from  the  West  who  were  so 
struck  by  the  dome  they  wanted  to  get  up  on  the  roof 
and  study  its  proportions. 

114 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Fortunately  it  was  a  black,  heavy  day,  the  kind  when 
the  lights  shine  out  in  dark  offices  and  people  come 
to  the  windows  and  yank  up  the  shades.  If  anyone 
did  notice  them  they'd  have  looked  like  a  couple  of 
men  searching  for  a  leak,  especially  as  they  were  busy 
in  one  spot — the  space  below  the  two  windows  marked 
by  the  burnt  ends  of  the  matches  O'Mally  had  dropped. 

And  here,  with  the  scattered  matches  all  around  it, 
caught  in  a  ledge  just  above  the  gutter,  they  made  the 
greatest  find  of  all — a  scarf  pin.  It  was  a  star  sapphire 
set  in  a  twist  of  gold  and  platinum.  An  hour  after 
they  had  it  in  their  possession  it  was  identified  by 
George  and  Mr.  Whitney  as  one  they  had  seen  on 
Johnston  Barker  the  morning  of  January  fifteenth. 

From  the  tailor  came  further  testimony.  He  iden- 
tified the  button  as  made  from  a  new  mould,  the  first 
consignment  of  which  he  had  received  late  in  Decem- 
ber. So  far  he  had  only  used  it  on  two  suits,  one  for 
a  mining  man  from  Nevada  and  the  other  for  Johnston 
Barker — a  dark  brown  cheviot  with  a  reddish  line. 
This  had  been  the  suit  Barker  had  on  when  he  visited 
the  Whitney  office  that  mornVig. 

When  he  came  to  the  end  of  all  this  I  was  balanced 
on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  with  my  feet  braced  on  the  floor 
to  keep  from  sliding  off  and  my  eyes  glued  on  my  lov- 
ing spouse. 

115 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


*'Do  you  mean  he  came  down  from  one  window  to  the 
other,  Soapy?" 

Babbitts  nodded: 

''Lowering  himself  by  a  rope  fastened  to  the  upper 
cleat  which  his  weight  loosened." 

"But — my  goodness!"  I  was  aghast  at  the  idea. 
"A  man  of  Barker's  age  dangling  down  along  the  wall 
that  you  could  see  for  miles!" 

'*You  couldn't  have  seen  him  twenty  feet  off.  The 
wall's  dark  and  it  was  a  black  dark  night.  If  you'd 
been  watching  with  a  glass  you  couldn't  have  made 
out  anything  at  that  height  and  at  that  hour," 

"But  thedanger  of  it?" 

**He  was  on  a  desperate  job  and  had  to  take  chances. 
Besides  it's  not  as  risky  as  it  sounds.  The  distance 
he  had  to  drop  was  short.  The  ceilings  are  low  in 
those  office  buildings  and  the  awning  supports  have  to 
be  unusually  strong  because  of  the  summer  storms. 
And  then  the  man  himself  was  small  and  light  and  is 
known  to  have  kept  himself  in  the  pink  of  condition. 
With  a  strong  rope  thrown  over  the  cleat  he  could 
easily  have  swung  himself  to  the  story  below,  stood 
on  the  stone  ledge  which  his  feet  scratched,  and  pushed 
up  the  window  which  Ford  had  probably  left  slightly 
raised." 

"The  whole  thing  was  a  plot.?" 
116 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"A  consummate  plot — not  a  murder  committed  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  but  a  murder  carefully  planned. 
Whitney  thinks  Barker  had  scented  Harland's  suspi- 
cions long  before  they  broke  out  in  the  quarrel,  in  fact 
that  he  had  provoked  it  to  give  color  to  the  suicide 
theory.  When  Barker  went  up  that  afternoon  the 
rope  was  under  his  coat.  When  Ford  left  the  Azalea 
Woods  Estates  early  he  knew  every  move  he  was  to 
make  from  that  time  till  he  boarded  the  elevator.  There 
were  only  two  weak  spots  in  it,  the  open  window  on 
the  seventeenth  floor  and  the  length  of  time  that  Har- 
land  was  supposed  to  have  been  in  the  corridor 
— the  two  points  upon  which  Whitney  based  his  suspi- 
cions." 

I  was  silent  a  minute,  turning  it  over  in  my  mind, 
then  I  said  slowly : 

"When  Barker  was  coming  down  that  way — it  would 
have  taken  some  time  wouldn't  it? — Harland  must  have 
been  in  the  front  office." 

"Yes.  O'Mally's  puzzled  over  that  point — What 
kept  him  there.'"' 

"Looks  like  he  might  have  had  a  date  with  some- 
one," I  said  pondering. 

*'Ford,  of  course,  but  nobody  can  imagine  what  he 
wanted  to  see  Ford  about.  Oh,  there's  a  lot  of  broken 
links  in  the  chain  yet." 

117 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I  looked  on  the  floor,  frowning  and  thoughtful: 
"It's  awful  strange.    I'd  like  to  know  what  made  him 

come  down  there — what  was  put  up  to  him  to  lure  him 

that  way  to  his  death." 


CHAPTER  IX 

JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

WITH  the  fitting  of  the  murder  on  Johnston 
Barker,  the  office  of  Whitney  &  Whitney 
drew  in  its  breath,  took  a  cinch  in  its  belt, 
and  went  at  the  work  with  a  quiet,  deadly  zest.  It  was 
the  most  sensational  and  one  of  the  biggest  cases  that 
had  ever  come  their  way.  No  one  on  the  inside  could 
have  failed  to  feel  the  thrill  of  it,  the  horror  of  the 
crime,  and  the  excitement  of  the  subterranean  chase 
for  the  criminal. 

I  was  as  keen  as  the  rest  of  them,  but  there  was  one 
feature  of  the  secret  investigations  that  I  detested — 
the  dragging  in  of  Carol  Whitehall's  name.  It  couldn't 
be  helped.  The  affair  had  taken  place  in  her  offices, 
but  it  was  hateful  to  me  to  hear  her  mentioned  in  our 
conferences,  even  though  it  was  merely  as  an  outside 
figure,  a  person  as  ignorant  of  the  true  state  of  the 
case  as  Troop  or  Mrs.  Hansen. 

The  tapped  phone  message  and  the  subsequent  trip 
to  Rochester  had  given  me  no  end  of  a  jar.  Up  till 
then   I   couldn't   imagine   her  as    caring   for  Barker. 

119 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Everybody  admitted  that  his  private  life  had  been 
beyond  reproach — entirely  free  from  entanglements 
with  women — but  even  so  I  couldn't  picture  the  girl 
I'd  met  in  New  Jersey  in  love  with  him.  He  was  be- 
tween fifty  and  sixty,  more  than  twice  her  age.  George 
said  it  was  his  money,  but  George  has  lived  among 
the  fashionable  rich,  women  who'd  marry  an  octogenar- 
ian for  a  house  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  a  string  of  pearls. 
I  would  have  staked  my  last  dollar  she  wasn't  that  kind 
— proud  and  pure  as  Diana,  only  giving  herself  where 
her  heart  went  first. 

But  if  it  had  been  hard  to  imagine  her  as  fond  of 
Barker  the  magnate,  what  was  it  now  when  he  was 
Barker  the  murderer?  It  made  me  sick.  All  I  could 
hope  for  was  that  we'd  get  him  and  save  the  unfortunate 
girl  by  showing  her  what  he  was.  And  while  we  were 
doing  this  it  was  up  to  us  to  keep  her  out  of  it,  shield 
her  and  protect  her  in  every  possible  way.  She  was 
a  lady,  the  kind  of  woman  that  every  man  wants  to  keep 
aloof  from  anything  sordid  and  brutal. 

I  was  thinking  this  one  morning,  a  few  days  after 
our  last  seance,  on  my  way  to  the  office.  I  had  been 
detained  on  work  uptown  and  was  late,  entering  upon  a 
conference  of  the  chief,  George  and  O'Mally.  When  I 
heard  what  they'd  been  evolving,  I  didn't  show  the  ex- 
pected enthusiasm.     Miss  Whitehall  was  to  be  asked  to 

120 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


come  to  Whitney  &  Whitney's  that  afternoon,  the  hope 
being  to  trap  or  beguile  her  Into  some  information  about 
Barker's  whereabouts.  It  was  the  chiefs  plan — a  poor 
one,  I  thought,  and  said  so — ^but  he  was  as  enigmatic  as 
usual,  remarking  that  whether  it  succeeded  or  not,  he 
wanted  to  see  her.  It  didn't  add  to  my  good  humor 
to  hear  that,  as  I  knew  the  girl,  they'd  selected  me 
for  their  messenger. 

Not  being  able  to  strike  straight  at  their  subject 
they'd  framed  up  a  story,  one  that  would  give  them 
scope  for  questions  and  be  a  sufficiently  plausible  excuse 
to  get  her  there.  It  seemed  to  me  absurd,  but  the  old 
man  was  satisfied  with  it.  Everybody  now  knew  that 
Harland  had  been  her  silent  partner.  Their  story  was 
that  they'd  heard  Barker  was  also  in  the  enterprise, 
she'd  had  a  double  backing,  his  visits  to  her  office  gave 
color  to  the  rumor,  and  so  forth  and  so  on.  I  left 
the  office  while  they  were  conning  it  over. 

As  I  mounted  the  stairs  to  her  apartment  I  felt  a 
good  deal  of  a  cad.  If  it  had  been  anyone  else,  or  any 
other  kind  of  a  woman — ^but  that  fine,  high-spirited 
creature!  A  group  of  men  trying  to  make  a  fool  of 
her — beastly !  Why  had  I  said  I'd  do  it — and  why  the 
devil  had  she  got  mixed  up  in  such  an  ugly  business  ? 

A  servant  opened  the  door  and  showed  me  up  a  hall 
into  the  parlor.    She  was  there  sitting  at  a  desk  littered 

121 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


with  papers,  and  rose  with  a  faint  surprised  smile  when 
she  saw  me.  As  we  sat  down  and  I  made  my  apologies 
for  intruding,  I  had  a  chance  to  observe  her  and  was 
struck  by  the  change  in  her.  It  was  less  than  a  year 
since  we'd  last  met  and  she  looked  singularly  different. 
Handsome  of  course — she'd  always  be  that — but  an- 
other kind  of  woman.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  because 
she  was  paler  and  thinner — she'd  been  a  radiant,  bloom- 
ing Amazon  in  the  country — but  after  a  few  minutes 
I  saw  it  was  something — how  can  I  express  it? — more 
of  the  spirit  than  the  body.  The  joyousness  and  gayety 
had  gone  out  of  her,  and  the  spontaneity — I  noticed 
that  especially.  I  could  feel  constraint  in  her  com- 
posure as  if  she  was  on  her  dignity. 

As  I  explained  my  mission — I  couldn't  say  much,  and 
felt  beastly  uncomfortable  while  I  was  doing  it — she 
listened  with  an  expressionless,  polite  attention.  When 
I  had  finished  she  made  no  comment,  merely  saying  she 
would  be  only  too  happy  to  do  anything  for  Mr.  Whit- 
ney, then  passed  on  to  her  own  affairs,  mentioning 
the  failure  of  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  and  that  she 
thought  she  and  her  mother  would  return  to  the  coun- 
try. I  was  on  the  verge  of  offering  to  finance  her  in 
a  new  deal  and  then  remembered  I  was  there  as  an 
emissary,  not  as  a  friend.  It  rattled  me  and  the  rat- 
tling wasn't  helped  when  I  met  her  eyes,  brown  and 

122 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


soft,  but  with  something  scrutinizing  and  watchful 
under  their  velvety  darkness. 

I  stayed  longer  than  I  meant  to — ^longer  than  I 
needed  to.  Some  way  or  other  our  talk  shifted  round 
to  Azalea  and  Longwood,  to  Firehill  and  the  people 
we  knew  all  through  there.  I  forgot  about  the  matter 
I'd  come  on,  and  she  brightened  up  too  and  there  was 
a  gleam  of  the  girl  I'd  met  a  year  ago.  But  when  I 
rose  to  leave  the  other  woman  was  back,  the  reserved, 
poised  woman  who  seemed  shut  in  a  shell  of  conven- 
tional politeness.  She  said  she'd  come  that  afternoon 
about  five — she  had  work  to  do  that  would  keep  her  till 
then.  In  the  doorway  she  suddenly  smiled  and  held  out 
her  hand.  The  feel  of  it,  soft  and  warm,  was  in  mine 
when  I  got  out  into  the  street. 

I  went  back  to  the  office  feeling  meaner  than  a  yellow 
dog.  Thank  Heaven  I'd  not  have  to  do  that  again. 
They'd  get  all  they  could  out  of  her,  and  that  would 
be  the  last  time  Whitney  &  Whitney  would  want  to  sec 
her.  Later  on,  in  a  week  or  two  maybe,  I  could  call 
on  her  again.  The  ice  was  broken,  and  anyway  I  didn't 
see  but  what  it  was  my  duty.  Someone  ought  to  help 
her  to  get  on  her  feet  again  and  as  she'd  no  man  in  her 
own  family  the  least  I  could  do  was  to  offer  my  serv- 
ices. 

At  five  the  chief,  George  and  I  were  waiting  for  her. 
1^3 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


She  was  a  little  late  and  as  she  came  in  I  noticed  that 
she  had  more  color  than  she'd  had  in  the  morning.  She 
looked  splendid,  in  a  dark  fur  coat  and  some  kind  of  a 
close-fitting  hat  with  her  black  hair  curling  out  below 
the  edge.  Her  manner  was  cool  and  tranquil,  not  a  hint 
about  her  of  surprise  or  uneasiness,  only  that  height- 
ened color  which  I  set  down  to  the  hurry  she'd  been  in 
getting  there. 

The  chief  was  as  gracious  as  if  he'd  been  welcom- 
ing her  as  a  guest  in  his  house — full  of  apologies,  wav- 
ing her  to  an  armchair,  suggesting  she  take  off  her  coat 
as  the  room  was  warm.  No  outsider  would  ever  have 
guessed  what  was  going  on  in  that  astute  and  subtle 
mind.  A  feeling  of  indignant  pity  rose  in  me — she 
seemed  so  unsuspecting.  But — No;  it's  better  for  me 
to  describe  the  scene  as  it  occurred,  to  try  and  make 
you  see  it  as  I  did. 

When  the  necessary  politenesses  were  disposed  of, 
the  old  man,  very  delicately,  with  all  his  tact  and 
finesse,  started  on  the  frame-up.  He  did  it  admirably, 
finishing  on  a  sort  of  confidential  note.  As  the  attor- 
ney for  the  Copper  Pool  group,  it  would  facilitate  mat- 
ters if  he  knew  of  all  Barker's  activities ;  any  informa- 
tion, the  slightest,  would  be  helpful. 

She  answered  readily,  without  surprise,  almost  as 
if  she  might  have  heard  the  story  before. 

1^4 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"You've  been  misinformed,  Mr.  Whitney.  Mr. 
Barker  had  no  interest  in  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

The  old  man  pursed  out  his  lips  and  raised  his 
brows : 

*'I  see,  one  of  those  groundless  rumors  that  gather 
about  a  sensational  event.  It  probably  started  from 
the  fact,  mentioned  in  the  papers,  that  Barker  was  in 
,your  office  that  afternoon." 

"Probably.  He  came  to  see  me  about  a  house  he  was 
going  to  build  in  the  tract.  Of  course  that's  all  ended 
in  nothing  now." 

He  looked  at  her  from  under  his  bushy  brows,  a  kind, 
fatherly  glance: 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  hear,  Miss  Whitehall,  that  you 
were  one  of  the  sufferers  in  this  double  disaster  we  are 
trying  to  settle." 

"Oh,  I!"  she  gave  a  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders. 
"I'm  wiped  out." 

"Teh!"  he  shook  his  head  frowning  and  resentful. 
"These  men  can  knife  each  other — pirates  in  a  bucca- 
neer warfare — but  when  it  comes  to  dragging  down 
women  I'd  like  to  see  them  all  strung  up." 

Her  eyes  gave  a  flash.  It  was  like  a  spark  struck 
from  a  flint,  there  and  then  gone.  As  if  it  had  sur- 
prised her,  and  she  was  determined  to  guard  against 

125 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


its  return,  the  calm  of  her  face  intensified  into  an  almost 
mask-like  quiet.     She  answered  softly: 

"I  can't  go  so  far  as  that,  Mr.  Whitney.  I'm  sure 
there's  some  explanation — as  to  Mr.  Barker,  I  mean." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  the  chief,  "for  your  sake  if  for  no 
other.  I  hope  he'll  come  back  and  make  the  restitution 
he  owes  his  associates  and  discharge  that  obligation 
about  the  house  and  lot." 

He  looked  at  her  smiling,  a  rallying  smile  that  said 
as  plain  as  words,  he  knew  such  hopes  to  be  groundless. 
She  did  not  smile  back,  simply  raised  her  eyebrows 
and  gave  a  slight  nod.  George,  who  was  facing  her, 
leaned  forward  and  said  as  if  he  had  just  met  her  at 
a  pink  tea  and  was  being  gallantly  sympathetic: 

"It  was  rather  hard  on  you.  Miss  Whitehall,  having 
those  two  men  in  your  place  that  day.  The  press  must 
have  made  your  life  a  burden." 

"It  wasn't  so  bad.  Some  reporters  called  me  up  but 
when  they  found  how  little  I  knew  they  left  me  alone. 
I  hadn't  anything  exciting  to  say.  Both  interviews 
were  nothing  but  business." 

"But  let  me  ask  you  a  question — not  for  publication 
this  time,  just  as  a  thing  I'm  curious  about.  It  was 
only  a  few  hours  after  you  saw  him  that  Harland  killed 
himself.  Wasn't  there  anything  unusual  in  his  manner, 
anything  to  suggest  that  he  was  not  liimself  .^" 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


She  looked  down  at  the  purse  she  was  holding  in 
her  lap,  and  said  slowly,  clasping  and  unclasping  the 
catch : 

"I  didn't  notice  anything — unless  perhaps  he  was  a 
little  irritable  and  nervous.  I  certainly  never  would 
have  thought  he  was  in  the  state  of  a  man  contemplat- 
ing suicide." 

"And  you  would  have  known,"  said  the  chief.  He 
turned  to  George  in  explanation.  "As  Harland's  part- 
ner, Miss  Whitehall  would  have  known  him  well  enough 
to  notice  any  marked  change  in  him." 

I  was  watching  her  closely  and  as  the  glances  of  the 
two  men  met  I  saw  uneasiness  well  up  through  the 
quietude  of  her  face.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  sus- 
pected that  she  was  not  as  composed  as  she  seemed. 
Her  words  confirmed  the  suspicion,  they  came  quickly 
in  hurried  denial : 

"No — I  didn't  know  him  well.  I  saw  him  very  seldom. 
We  were  not  in  the  least — ^what — what  you'd  call 
friends  or  even  close  acquaintances.  It  was  all  purely 
business." 

The  chief  nodded,  a  slight.  Mandarin-like  teetering 
of  his  head,  which  gave  the  impression  of  a  polite  agree- 
ment in  a  matter  that  didn't  interest  him. 

"Purely  business,"  he  murmured,  then  again  turned 
to  George.    "What  Miss  Whitehall  says  would  bear  out 

in 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  general  idea  that  it  was  that  last  interview  which 
drove  Harland  to  desperation." 

As  they  spoke  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  a 
glance  that  passed  over  both  faces  as  quick  as  a  light- 
ning flash.  Before  they  could  turn,  it  was  gone  and 
her  eyes  had  a  dense,  dead  look  as  if  she  had  dropped 
some  inner  veil  over  them.  Then  I  hnew  that  the  brain 
behind  that  smooth  white  forehead  was  something  more 
than  alert,  it  was  on  its  guard,  wary  and  watchful. 

The  knowledge  made  me  suddenly  speak.  I  wanted 
to  see,  I  had  to  see,  if  that  careful  control  would  hold 
under  a  direct  question  about  her  lover. 

"How  about  Barker  ?  How  did  he  act  when  you  saw 
him  that  afternoon.?" 

She  shifted  slightly  to  see  me  better. 

"Oh,  perfectly  naturally.  There  was  nothing  in  the 
least  unusual  about  him." 

"Barker  was  a  man  of  iron,"  said  the  chief.  "His 
mental  disturbances  didn't  show  on  the  outside.  Be- 
sides," he  gave  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  her — "this 
young  lady  knew  him  only  slightly."  He  turned  quickly 
to  her,  "I'm  right,  am  I  not?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  and  kept  them 
there,  black  and  unfathomable.  "My  acquaintance 
with  him  was  simply  that  of  an  agent  with  a  customer." 

For  a  moment  I  couldn't  look  at  her ;  I  got  up  and 
128 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


going  to  the  window  fumbled  with  the  blind.  The  man 
she'd  tried  to  run  away  with — and  telling  her  lie 
with  that  smooth  steadiness!  It  was  only  love  could 
give  such  nerve.  Behind  me  I  heard  the  old  man's 
voice : 

"A  horrible  affair.  It  was  fortunate  for  you  you 
escaped  the  sight  of  it." 

"Ah — "  it  was  a  sound  of  shuddering  protest — ''that 
would  have  been  too  much.  I  knew  nothing  of  it  till 
I  saw  the  papers  the  next  morning.  It  made  me  ill — I 
was  at  home  for  several  days." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I'm  in  hopes  we're  going  to 
straighten  things  out  before  long." 

I  turned  from  the  window  and  moved  back,  wonder- 
ing what  he  was  going  to  say.  She  was  looking  again 
at  her  purse,  snapping  and  unsnapping  the  clasp. 

"How  can  you  do  that.?"  she  asked. 

"Haven't  you  read  in  the  papers  that  Barker's  been 
seen  in  Philadelphia?" 

"Ah  yes,"  she  murmured,  her  glance  still  on  the 
purse,     "But  nobody's  found  him  yet." 

"Give  us  time — give  us  time.  These  vanishing  gen- 
tlemen like  a  change  of  air.  They  don't  stay  long 
under  our  hospitable  flag.     Their  goal  is  Canada." 

For  a  moment  she  had  no  reply.  You  could  see  it, 
you  could  see  the  effort  with  which  she  held  her  statue- 

129 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


calm  pose,  but  a  deep  breath  lifted  her  breast  and  the 
edge  of  her  teeth  showed  on  her  underlip. 

"Canada,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  comfortable  roll 
in  his  big  chair,  "is  our  modern  American  equivalent 
of  the  medieval  sanctuary." 

She'd  got  her  nerve  back — I  never  saw  such  grit. 
She  gave  him  a  smile,  not  jolly  like  his,  but  defiant. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "a  sort  of  Cave  of  Adullum." 
Then  she  rose  and  looking  at  him  from  under  her  eyelids 
added,  "But  if  a  man's  clever  enough  to  get  to  the 
Cave  of  Adullum  I  should  think  he'd  be  too  clever  to 
stay  there." 

She  turned  and  took  her  coat  from  the  chair  back. 
George  made  a  jump  to  help  her  and  the  old  man 
heaved  himself  up,  breaking  out  with  renewed  apologies 
for  the  trouble  he'd  given  her.  They  were  like  people 
separating  after  a  social  function,  he  bland  and  cour- 
teous, she  gracious  and  deprecating. 

"If  I  could  be  of  any  service  to  you  I'd  be  only  too 
glad.  But" — she  gave  that  little  shrug  of  her  shoul- 
ders— "I'm  so  unimportant.  A  poor  working  woman 
whose  orbit  happened  by  chance  to  cross  those  of  two 
great  luminaries." 

"There's  nothing  for  anybody  to  do  but  us,"  said 
George,  standing  behind  her  and  holding  out  her  coat. 
"And  we'll  do  it.    You'll  see  some  morning  in  the  paper 

130 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


that  we've  got  our  hands  on  Barker — the  high-class 
sneak." 

He  and  his  father  worked  so  well  together  that  he 
told  me  afterward  he  knew  the  old  man  would  be  watch- 
ing her.  He  was  and  so  was  I,  and  at  those  words  1  saw 
the  rich  color  spread  to  her  forehead  and  again  that 
flash,  like  a  leap  of  flame,  shine  in  her  eyes.  She  knew 
it  too  and  dropped  her  lids  over  it,  but  the  color  she 
couldn't  control  and  it  glowed  in  crimson  on  her  cheeks 
as  she  answered  with  a  sort  of  soft  tolerance : 

'*0h,  Mr.  Whitney,  hunting  criminals  has  made  you 
unjust."  Then  as  the  coat  slipped  on  she  flashed  a  look 
at  him  over  her  shoulder,  "But  I  don't  think  it's  real! 
The  profession  requires  a  pose." 

George  was  quite  bowled  over.  He  had  no  answer 
and  she  knew  it,  turning  from  him  with  a  smile  and 
moving  toward  the  door.  Halfway  there  the  old  man 
stopped  her. 

"Oh,  by  the  way — one  thing  more  that  nearly  slipped 
my  memory.  You  no  doubt  saw  in  the  papers  that 
Harland  is  supposed  to  have  spent  the  half-hour  before 
he  jumped,  in  the  corridor  of  your  floor.  Did  you 
see  him  there — as  you  left,  I  mean .?" 

"I?"  she  raised  her  eyebrows  in  artless,  surprised 
query.  "No,  I'd  gone  before  he  came  down.  I  left 
about  six,  or  maybe  a  little  before." 

131 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Um!"  he  nodded.  "You  were  probably  in  the 
elevator." 

"Yes,  probably — "  her  purse  dropped  from  her  hand 
to  the  floor.  We  all  started  forward  to  pick  it  up  but 
she  was  too  quick  for  us  and  had  it  before  any  of  us 
could  reach  it.  As  she  righted  herself  from  the  sudden 
stoop  her  face  was  deeply  flushed.  "Yes,  of  course,  I 
must  have  been  in  the  elevator,"  she  finished  with  a 
slight  gasp  as  if  the  quick  movement  had  impeded  her 
breathing. 

**I  see,  of  course,"  agreed  the  chief  moving  beside  her 
to  the  door.  *'It  merely  interested  me  as  a  student  of 
morbid  psychology.  I'd  like  to  have  known  how  a 
man  of  Harland's  type  looked,  moved,  comported  him- 
self, while  such  a  struggle  went  on  in  his  mind." 

At  the  door  there  were  general  good-byes,  a  very 
cordial  parting  all  round.  I  slipped  out  behind  her  to 
escort  her  through  the  hall  to  the  elevator.  As  we 
brushed  along  side  by  side  she  said  nothing  and  glimps- 
ing down  at  her  face,  I  saw  it  set  in  a  still  pondering — 
sphinx-like  it  seemed  to  me. 

Waiting  for  the  car  I  said  a  few  civil  commonplaces 
to  which  she  made  short  conventional  answers.  Biting 
her  lip,  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  she  looked  preoccu- 
pied, impatient,  I  thought,  for  the  car  to  come.  I  want- 
ed to  ask  her  if  I  could  see  her  again,  but  I  didn't  dare, 

132 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


she  seemed  so  indifferent,  so  shut  away  in  her  own 
brooding.  But  when  she  entered  the  elevator  and  the 
gate  shut,  I  saw  her  through  the  grill-work,  looking  at 
me  from  behind  that  iron  barrier,  and  the  sight  stirred 
me  like  a  hand  clasped  on  my  heart. 

It  wasn't  only  the  expression. of  her  face,  which  was 
sad,  almost  tragic,  but  it  was  a  strange  and  eerie  sug- 
gestion that  it  was  like  a  face  looking  through  the  bars 
of  a  prison.    The  thought  haunted  me  as  I  walked  back. 

In  the  office  George  and  the  chief  were  talking  over 
the  interview.  They'd  noted  every  tone  of  her  voice, 
every  change  of  her  color.  That  she'd  lied  had  not 
surprised  them.     She  had  had  to  lie. 

"Must  love  the  old  rascal  to  death,"  George  com- 
mented. 

The  chief  rose  lumberingly  and  moved  to  his  cigar 
box  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  understand  now  why  Barker — ^who  never  was 
known  to  care  for  a  woman — finally  fell.  She's  a  splen- 
did creature — brains  and  beauty." 

"Both  to  burn,"  George  agreed.  "You  couldn't  get 
much  out  of  her." 

"All  I  wanted  just  now,"  said  his  father,  striking  a 
match,  "the  rest'll  come  in  time." 

I  was  just  going  to  ask  him  what  more  he  expected, 
when  a  clerk  opened  the  door  and  said: 

133 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Mrs.  Babbitts  is  outside  to  see  Mr.  Whitney." 

The  chief  squared  round  like  a  flasK,  the  lit  match 
dropping  to  the  hearth.  His  face,  usually  heavy  and 
stolid,  lit  into  an  almost  avid  eagerness. 

"Show  her  in,"  he  ordered  and  the  clerk  disappeared. 

"What  are  you  expecting  to  get  from  Molly.''"  George 
asked.     "Isn't  she  finished?" 

"Not  quite."  The  old  man's  eyes  were  on  the  door, 
his  cigar  unlit  in  his  hand.  I  hadn't  often  seen  him 
so  openly  on  the  qui  vive.  "Molly's  had  further  or- 
ders." 

"What?" 

"You'll  see,"  was  the  answer. 

Molly  entered  with  the  cold  of  the  night  still  around 
her.  Her  long  coat  was  buttoned  wrong,  her  hat  on 
one  side.  Haste  was  written  all  over  her,  haste  and 
that  bright-eyed,  jubilant  exhilaration  that  took  pos- 
session of  her  when  things  were  moving  her  way.  She 
was  like  a  little  game  dog  on  the  scent,  and  I'd  often 
heard  the  old  man  say  she'd  make  the  best  woman 
detective  he'd  ever  known.  He  was  awfully  fond  of  her, 
and  took  a  sort  of  paternal  pride  in  her  nerve  and 
cleverness,  just  as  he  did  in  George's. 

"Well,  Molly,"  he  said— "got  that  stuff  for  me?" 

She  nodded,  her  little  body  seeming  to  radiate  a  quiv- 
ering energy : 

134 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Today  at  the  lunch  hour.  I  came  the  minute  I  got 
off." 

"Go  ahead.  I  said  not  to  tell  anybody  till  you  told 
me  first.     Well,  you're  going  to  tell  me  first  now." 

Standing  by  the  table,  her  eyes  bright  on  the  old 
man,  she  said  slowly  and  clearly: 

"Troop  says  he  never  took  Miss  Whitehall  down 
from  her  ofiices  on  the  night  of  January  the  fifteenth." 

George  gave  a  smothered  ejaculation  and  started 
forward.  I  was  transfixed — not  believing  my  ears. 
Only  the  chief  looked  unmoved,  leaning  against  the 
mantelpiece,  holding  Molly's  glance  with  his. 

"Go  on,"  he  growled. 

**He  says  that  he  was  there  later  than  usual,  until 
eight,  because  of  the  accident  and  the  other  car  being 
broken.  Before  that  he  took  down  the  two  Azalea 
Woods  Estates  clerks,  lola  Barry  and  Tony  Ford, 
but  not  Miss  Whitehall.  After  the  accident  he  ran 
out  intt!)  the  street,  and  when  he  came  back  the  people 
were  on  every  landing  ringing  the  bells  and  wild  because 
the  elevator  didn't  come.  He  went  up  and  took  them 
off,  but  Miss  Whitehall  wasn't  among  them.  He  said 
that  he'd  heard  some  of  them  got  tired  of  waiting  and 
went  by  the  stairs." 

"He  thought  Miss  Whitehall  went  that  way?" 

"Yes,  it  was  the  only  way  she  could  have  gone. 
135 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


He  supposed  she'd  got  impatient  or  hysterical  and  just 
rushed  pell-mell  down." 

**Did  Troop  or  anyone  else  see  her  in  the  lower  hall 
or  leaving  the  building?" 

*'No,  I  questioned  him  careful  about  that.  He 
thought  she'd  seen  the  excitement  on  Broadway  and 
run  down  and  maybe  met  someone  who'd  told  her  what 
had  happened.  And  not  wanting  to  get  in  it  she'd  gone 
out  the  side  door.  Anyway  he  said  she  wasn't  in  the 
ground  floor  hall,  or  out  in  the  street  with  the  others 
or  he'd  have  seen  her." 

There  was  a  pause.  In  that  pause — ^like  figures  in  a 
picture — I  saw  George,  amazed,  petrified,  staring  at 
his  father,  Molly  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
the  chief  with  his  brows  low  down  and  his  head  drooped, 
gazing  at  the  fire.  In  a  moment  they  would  burst  into 
speech — the  speech  that  was  withheld  while  that 
astounding  revelation  found  acceptance  in  their  minds. 

To  hear  what  they  said — to  listen  to  what  I  couldn't 
believe  and  yet  couldn't  contradict — was  more  than  I 
could  stand  just  then.  Without  a  word,  unnoticed  by 
any  of  them,  I  slipped  out,  fled  down  the  hall,  into  the 
elevator  and  out  to  the  street. 

It  was  cold,  a  sharp,  frosty  night,  with  a  few  stars 
shining  in  the  deep-blue  sky.  Dark  masses  of  men 
flowed  out  of  the  doors  of  skyscrapers  and  drained  away 

136 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


down  the  subway  entrances.  I  jostled  through  them, 
elbowing  them  right  and  left,  instinctively  turning  my 
face  uptown,  deaf  to  the  curses  that  followed  me,  blind 
to  the  lights  that  stretched  in  a  spangled  vista  in  front. 

What  did  it  mean?  What  could  it  mean?  I'd  under- 
stood the  lie  about  Barker  but  now  those  other  lies! 
She  had  said  she  went  down  about  six,  in  the  elevator. 
I'd  heard  her,  there  was  no  getting  away  from  it. 
Was  that  the  reason  the  old  man  had  wanted  to  see 
her?  Suddenly  I  saw  again  his  look  of  hungry  expec- 
tation when  Molly  was  announced,  and  with  a  stifled 
sound,  I  stopped  short.  As  lightning  plays  upon  a 
dark  landscape,  for  a  moment  showing  it  plain,  I  had 
a  clear  glimpse  of  the  line  of  thought  he'd  been  pur- 
suing. The  horror  of  it  held  me  rooted  there,  rigid  as 
a  dead  man,  in  the  midst  of  the  hurrying  crowd. 

Incredible — ^hideous — unbelievable !  Association  with 
criminals  had  warped  and  diseased  his  judgment.  And 
then  like  a  sinister  shadow,  creeping  on  me  dark  and 
ominous,  rose  the  memory  of  her  guarded  face,  the 
flame  of  color  she  couldn't  hide,  the  dropped  purse.  I 
started  out  again,  fighting  the  shadow,  but  all  I  had 
to  fight  with  was  my  belief  in  her.  She  couldn't — it 
was  impossible,  I'd  die  swearing  it.  And  battering 
against  that  belief,  came  questions,  insistent,  madden- 
ing.    Why  couldn't  she  speak  out?     Why  didn't  she 

137 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


admit  the  truth — say  that  Barker  was  her  lover  and 
have  done  with  it?  Why  had  she  lied — about  him, 
about  the  time  she  left,  about  everything  she  could  have 

frankly  admitted,  if — if When  I  got  there  I  could 

go  no  farther.  Cursing  under  my  breath  I  forged 
along,  the  air  ice-cold  on  the  sweat  that  was  damp  on 
my  forehead. 


CHAPTER  X 

MOLLY  TELLS  THE  STORY 

FRIDAY  night  I  brought  the  information  from 
Troop  in  to  Mr.  Whitney,  and  knew  then  for 
the  first  time  why  he  wanted  it. 

Gee,  it  was  an  awful  thought ! 

As  I  sat  there  between  him  and  Mr.  George — Jack 
Reddy  went  away,  I  don't  know  why — with  neither  of 
them  saying  a  word,  I  saw,  like  it  was  a  vision,  the 
Harland  case  spreading  out  black  and  dreadful.  It 
made  me  think  of  ink  spilled  on  a  map,  running  slow 
but  sure  over  places  that  were  bright  and  clean,  trick- 
ling away  in  directions  no  one  ever  thought  it  would 
take. 

I  left  soon  after  Jack,  as  I  could  see  they  wanted  to 
get  rid  of  me.  Before  I  went  the  old  man  said  to  try 
and  get  a  line  on  the  Whitehalls'  servant — I  might  work 
it  through  lola — and  find  out  what  time  Miss  Whitehall 
came  home  the  night  of  January  fifteenth.  If  I  couldn't 
manage  it  I  was  to  let  him  know  and  it  could  be  passed 
on  to  O'Mally,  but  he  thought  I  had  the  best  chances. 
That,  as  far  as  he  knew  now,  was  the  last  he'd  need  of 

139 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


me.  My  work  at  the  Black  Eagle  was  done.  The  next 
day  would  be  my  last  one  there.  Say  nothing  to  any- 
one about  it — simply  drop  out.  The  reappearance  of 
Miss  McCalmont  was  his  affair. 

In  the  next  twenty-four  hours  things  came  swift,  as 
they  do  in  these  cases.  You'll  have  a  long  spell  with 
the  wires  dead,  then  suddenly  they'll  begin  to  hum, 
And  you've  got  to  be  ready  when  it  happens — ^jump 
quick  as  lightning.  I  learned  that  in  the  Hesketh 
case. 

The  first  chance  came  that  night,  was  sitting  in  the 
parlor  when  I  reached  home — lola !  She  had  the  hope 
of  a  new  job — a  good  one — and  wanted  a  recommenda- 
tion letter  from  Miss  Whitehall,  and  naturally,  being 
lola,  couldn't  go  unless  I  came  along  and  held  the 
sponge. 

It  was  so  pat  you'd  think  fate  had  fixed  it,  an3  it 
worked  out  as  pat  as  it  began.  While  lola  was  in  the 
parlor  getting  her  letter  I  stayed  in  the  kitchen — ^very 
meek  and  humble — and  when  the  servant  came  back — 
Delia  was  her  name — started  in  to  help  her  with  the 
dishes.  We  grew  neighborly  over  the  work,  she  wash^ 
ing  and  I  wiping,  and  what  was  more  natural  than  thai 
we'd  work  around  to  the  affairs  of  the  ladies.  They'd 
lost  all  their  money  and  Delia  was  going  to  leave.  How 
did  that  happen  now?    Sure,  it's  the  feller  that  killed 

140 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


himself  done  it — didn't  I  know?  I  only  had  to  let 
her  talk,  she  was  the  flannel-mouth  Irish  kind.  Here 
are  the  facts  as  they  went  in  to  Whitney  &  Whitney  the 
next  day. 

Miss  Whitehall  was  generally  very  punctual,  always 
getting  home  about  half-past  six.  On  the  night  of 
January  fifteenth  she  didn't  get  back  till  a  quarter  to 
eight.  Such  a  delay  was  evidently  not  expected  as 
Mrs.  Whitehall  became  extremely  nervous,  couldn't 
keep  still  or  settle  to  anything.  At  a  quarter  to  eight, 
hearing  the  key  inserted  in  the  door,  Delia  had  gone 
into  the  hall,  and  seen  Miss  Whitehall  enter.  She  was 
very  pale  and  agitated.  Delia  had  never  seen  her  look 
so  upset.  She  walked  up  the  passage,  met  her  mother 
and  without  a  word  they  went  into  a  bedroom  and  shut 
the  door. 

At  dinner  she  ate  nothing  and  hardly  spoke  at  all 
— ^looked  and  acted  as  if  she  was  sick.  The  next  morn- 
ing when  she  read  of  the  Harland  suicide  in  the  paper 
she  nearly  fainted,  and  after  that  was  in  bed  for  three 
days,  prostrated  by  the  shock,  she  told  Delia. 

I  guessed  this  would  be  my  last  piece  of  work  on 
the  Harland  case  and  I  wasn't  sorry.  There  was  an 
awfulness  coming  over  it  that  was  too  much  for  me. 
But  it  wasn't,  not  by  a  long  shot.  I  was  in  deeper  than 
I  knew,  so  deep — but  that  comes  later.    I'll  go  on  now 

141 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


to  tell  what  happened  that  last  night  I  was  in  the  Black 
Eagle  Building. 

It  was  coming  on  for  closing  time  and  I  was  making 
ready  to  go.  I'd  cleared  up  all  my  little  belongings, 
and  was  standing  by  the  switchboard  pressing  the  tray 
cloth  careful  into  my  satchel,  when  I  heard  a  step  stop 
at  the  door  and  a  cheerful  voice  sing  out : 

"Just  in  the  nick  of  time.  Spreading  her  wings  ready 
for  flight.'' 

There  in  the  doorway,  filling  it  up  with  his  big  shape, 
was  Tony  Ford.  For  the  first  moment  I  got  a  sort  of 
setback.  Mightn't  anyone — thinking  of  home  and  hus- 
band and  finding  yourself  face  to  face  with  a  gunman? 

With  one  hand  still  in  the  satchel  I  stood  eyeing  him, 
not  a  word  out  of  me,  solemn  as  a  tombstone.  It  didn't 
phaze  him  a  bit.  Teetering  from  his  heels  to  his  toes, 
a  grin  on  him  like  the  slit  in  a  post  box,  he  stood  there 
as  calm  as  if  he'd  never  come  nearer  murder  than  to 
spell  it  in  the  fourth  grade. 

"It  just  came  to  me  a  few  moments  ago — as  I  was 
passing  by  here — that  the  prettiest  and  smartest  hello 
girl  in  New  York  mightn't  have  gone  home  yet,"  he 
said. 

Now  if  you're  experienced  about  men — and  take  it 
from  me  hello  girls  are — you  never  believe  a  word  a  chap 
like  Tony  Ford  hands  out.  But  hearing  those  words  and 

14^ 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


looking  at  his  broad,  conceited  face,  it  came  to  me  that 
these  were  true.  He'd  been  passing,  suddenly  thought 
of  me,  and  dropped  in  to  see  if  I  was  there. 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "here  I  am.    What  of  it?" 

"First  of  it,"  he  said,  "is  how  long  are  you  going  to 
be  there.?" 

"Till  I  get  this  satchel  closed,"  I  said  and  pressing 
hard  on  the  catch  it  snapped  shut. 

"And  second  of  it,"  he  went  on,  "is  where  are  you 
going  afterward.''" 

My  first  thought  was  I  was  going  to  get  away  from 
him  as  fast  as  the  Interborough  System  could  take  me 
— and  then  I  had  a  second  thought.  Why  had  Tony 
Ford  dropped  in  so  opportune  at  my  closing  hour.?  To 
ask  me  to  dinner.  And  why  couldn't  I,  hired  to  do 
work  for  Whitney  &  Whitney,  do  a  little  extra  for  good 
measure?  I  knew  they  wanted  to  hear  Ford's  own  ac- 
count of  what  he  did  the  evening  of  January  fifteenth, 
but  that  they  couldn't  get  it.  What  was  the  matter 
with  me,  Molly  Babbitts,  getting  it  for  them? 

It  flashed  into  my  head  like  lightning  and  it  didn't 
flash  out  again.  Frightened?  Not  a  bit!  Keyed  up 
though — like  your  blood  begins  to  run  quick.  I'd  taken 
some  risky  dares  in  my  time  but  it  was  a  new  one  on 
me  to  dine  with  a  murderer.  But  honest,  besides  the 
pleasure  of  doing  something  for  the  old  man,  there  was 

143 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  creepy  sort  of  thrill  about  it  that  strung  up  my 
nerves  and  made  me  feel  like  I  was  going  to  shoot 
Niagara  in  a  barrel. 

"Going  home,  eh?"  said  he.  "It's  a  long,  cold  ride 
home." 

"That's  the  first  truth  you've  said,"  I  answered. 
"And  for  showing  me  you  can  do  it  I'll  offer  you  my 
grateful  thanks." 

I  began  to  put  on  my  gloves,  he  standing  in  the  door- 
way watching. 

"To  break  the  journey  with  a  little  bit  of  dinner 
might  be  a  good  idea." 

"It  might,"  I  said,  "if  anybody  had  it.** 

"I  have  it.    I've  had  it  aU  day." 

"What's  the  good  of  having  it  if  you  haven't  got  the 
price."  I  picked  up  my  satchel  and  looked  cool  and 
pitying  at  him.  "Unless  you're  calculating  to  take 
me  to  the  bread  line." 

"There  you  wrong  me,"  he  answered.  "Nothing  but 
the  best  for  you,"  and  putting  his  hand  into  his  vest 
pocket  he  drew  out  a  roll  of  bills,  folding  them  back 
one  by  one  and  giving  each  a  name,  "Canvas  back,  ter- 
rapin, champagne,  oyster  crabs,  alligator  pears,  any- 
thing the  lady  calls  for." 

Those  greenbacks,  flirted  over  so  carelessly  by  his 
strong,  brown  fingers,  gave  me  the  horrors.     Blood 

144 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


money!  I  drew  back.  If  he  hadn't  been  blocking  up 
the  entrance,  I  think  I'd  have  quit  it  and  made  a  break 
for  the  open.  He  glanced  up  and  saw  my  face,  and  I 
guess  it  looked  queer. 

"What  are  you  staring  so  for  ?  They're  not  counter- 
feit." 

The  feeling  passed,  and  anyway  I  couldn't  get  out 
without  squeezing  by  him  and  I  didn't  want  to  touch 
him  any  more  than  I  would  a  spider, 

"I  was  calculating  how  much  of  it  I  could  eat,"  I 
said.  "My  folks  don't  like  me  to  dine  out  so  when  I 
do  I  try  to  catch  up  with  all  the  times  I've  refused." 

"Come  along  then,"  he  said,  stepping  back  from  the 
doorway.  "I  know  a  bully  little  joint  not  far  from 
here.  You  can  catch  up  there  if  you've  been  refusing 
dinners  since  the  first  telephone  was  installed." 

So  off  we  trotted  into  the  night,  I  and  the  murderer ! 

Can  you  see  into  my  mind — it  was  boiling  with 
thoughts  like  a  Hammam  bath  with  steam.''  What 
would  Soapy  say?  He'd  be  raging,  but  after  all  he 
couldn't  do  anything  more  than  rage.  You  can't  divorce 
a  woman  for  dining  with  a  murderer,  especially  if  she 
only  does  it  once.  Mr.  Whitney'd  be  all  right.  If  I 
got  what  I  intended  to  get  he'd  pass  me  compliments 
that  would  take  O'Mally's  pride  down  several  pegs. 
As  for  myself — Tony  Ford  wouldn't  want  to  murder 

145 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


me.  There  was  nothing  in  it,  and  judging  by  the  pleas- 
ant things  he  said  as  we  walked  to  the  restaurant,  you'd 
think  to  keep  me  alive  and  well  was  the  dearest  wish 
of  his  heart. 

The  restaurant  was  one  of  those  quiet  foreign  ones, 
in  an  old  dwelling  house,  sandwiched  in  among  shops 
and  offices.  It  was  a  decent  place — I'd  been  there  for 
lunch  with  lola — in  the  daytime  full  of  business  people, 
and  at  night  having  the  sort  of  crowd  that  gathers 
where  boarding  houses  and  downtown  apartments  and 
hotels  for  foreigners  give  up  their  dead. 

We  found  a  table  in  a  corner  of  the  front  room,  with 
the  wall  to  one  side  of  us  and  the  long  curtains  of  the 
window  behind  me.  There  were  a  lot  of  people  and  a 
few  waiters,  one  of  whom  Mr.  Ford  summoned  with  a 
haughty  jerk  of  his  head.  Then  he  sprawled  grandly 
in  his  chair  with  menus  and  wine  lists,  telHng  the  waiter 
how  to  serve  things  that  were  hot  and  ice  things  that 
were  cold  till  you'd  suppose  he'd  been  a  chef  along 
with  all  his  other  jobs.  He  put  on  a  great  deal  of 
side,  like  he  was  a  cattle  king  from  Chicago  trying  to 
impress  a  Pilgrim  Father  from  Boston.  The  only 
way  it  impressed  me  was  to  make  me  think  a  gunman 
with  blood  on  his  soul  wasn't  so  different  from  an 
innocent  clerk  with  nothing  to  trouble  him  but  the 
bill  at  the  end. 

146 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


As  he  was  doing  this  I  took  off  my  veil  and  gloves, 
careful  to  pull  off  my  wedding  ring — I  wasn't  going 
to  have  that  sidetracking  him — and  thinking  how  I'd 
begin. 

We  were  through  the  soup  and  on  the  fish  when 
I  decided  the  time  was  ripe  to  ring  the  bell  and  start. 
I  did  it  quietly: 

"I  guess  you've  got  a  new  place?" 

"No,  I'm  still  one  of  the  unemployed.  Don't  I  act 
like  it?"  He  smiled,  a  patronizing  smirk,  pleased  he'd 
got  the  hello  girl  guessing. 

"You  act  to  me  like  the  young  millionaire  cutting  his 
teeth  on  Broadway." 

He  lifted  his  glass  of  white  wine  and  sipped  it : 

"I  inherited  some  money  this  winter  from  an  uncle 
up-state.  You're  not  drinking  your  wine.  Don't  you 
like  it?" 

In  his  tone,  and  a  shifting  of  his  eyes  to  the  next 
table,  I  caught  a  suggestion  of  something  not  easy, 
put  on.  Maybe  if  you  hadn't  known  what  I  did  you 
wouldn't  have  noticed  what  was  plain  to  me — ^he  didn't 
like  the  subject. 

"No,  I  never  touch  wine,"  I  answered.  "I  don't  want 
to  speak  unfeelingly  but  it  was  mighty  convenient  your 
uncle  died  just  as  your  business  failed.  Wasn't  it  too 
bad  about  Miss  Whitehall?" 

147 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Very  unfortunate,  poor  girl.  Bad  for  me  but  worse 
for  her." 

"She  had  no  idea  it  was  coming,  I  suppose.?" 

He  looked  up  sudden  and  sharp : 

'^What  was  coming?" 

His  small  gray  eyes  sent  a  glance  piercing  into  mine, 
full  of  a  quick,  arrested  attention. 

"Why — why — the  ruin  of  Mr.  Harland." 

"Oh,  that,^^  he  was  easy  again,  "I  thought  you  meant 
the  suicide.  I  don't  know  whether  she  knew  or  not. 
Waiter" — he  turned  and  made  one  of  those  grand- 
stand plays  to  the  waiter — "take  this  away  and  bring 
on  the  next." 

"She'd  have  known  that  night  as  soon  as  she  heard 
he  was  dead  but  I  guess  she  was  so  paralyzed  she  didn't 
think  of  herself." 

"I  don't  know  what  she  thought  of.  She  wasn't  in 
the  office." 

I  dropped  my  eyes  to  my  plate.  Eliza  crossing  on 
the  ice  didn't  have  anything  over  me  in  the  way  she 
picked  her  steps. 

"Oh,  she'd  gone  before  it  happened?" 

"Yes.  I  left  early  myself  that  night — before  she  did. 
I  was  halfway  home  when  I  remembered  some  papers 
I'd  said  I'd  go  over  and  had  to  hike  back  for  them.  She 
was  gone  when  I  got  there.    And  just  think  how  grue- 

148 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


some  it  was,  when  I  was  going  down  in  the  elevator  Har- 
land  jumped,  struck  the  street  a  few  minutes  before  I 
reached  the  bottom." 

Could  you  beat  it!  Knowing  what  had  been  done 
in  that  closed  office,  knowing  what  was  going  to  be 
done  while  he  was  sliding  down  from  story  to  story  and 
then  getting  it  off  that  way,  as  smooth  as  cream.  A 
sick  feeling  rose  up  inside  me.  I  wanted  to  get  away 
from  him  and  see  an  honest  face  and  feel  the  cold,  fresh 
air.  Dining  with  a  gunman  wasn't  as  easy  as  I'd 
thought. 

Tony  Ford,  leaning  across  his  plate,  tapped  on  the 
cloth  with  his  knife  handle  to  emphasize  his  words : 

"He  must  have  been  up  that  side  corridor  waiting. 
When  he  heard  the  gate  shut  and  the  car  go  down,  he 
came  out,  walked  to  the  hall  window  and  jumped. 
Ugh!"  he  gave  a  wriggling  movement  with  his  broad 
shoulders.     ''That  takes  nerve!" 

I  suppose  sometimes  in  crowds  you  pass  murderers, 
but  you  don't  know  them  for  what  they  are.  Prob- 
ably never  again  if  I  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  would  I  sit 
this  way,  not  only  conversing  with  one,  but  conversing 
about  his  crime.  It  wasn't  what  you'd  look  back  on 
afterward  as  one  of  the  happy  memories  of  your  life, 
but  it  was  a  red-letter  experience.  I  had  a  vision  of 
telling  my  grandchildren  how  once,  when  I  was  young, 

149 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I  talked  with  one  of  the  blackest  criminals  of  his  day  on 
the  subject  of  the  deed  he'd  helped  commit. 

*'It's  a  fortunate  thing  he  left  no  family."  It  was 
something  to  say,  and  I  had  to  keep  him  moving  along 
the  same  line.  "You'd  suppose  he'd  have  married  again, 
being  wealthy  and  handsome." 

Mr.  Ford,  who  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  smiled  to 
himself  and  said :    "So  you  would." 

"And  I  guess  he  could  have  had  his  pick.  Maybe 
he  cared  for  someone  who  didn't  reciprocate." 

He  threw  away  the  match  and  lolled  back  in  his 
chair. 

"Maybe,"  he  said  with  a  meaning  secret  air. 

It  wouldn't  have  taken  a  girl  just  landed  at  Ellis 
Island  to  see  that  he  wanted  to  be  questioned.  It  was 
out  on  him  like  a  rash.  So  not  to  disappoint  him  and 
also  being  curious  I  asked : 

^^Was  he  in  love  with  someone?" 

He  said  nothing  but  blew  a  smoke  ring  into  the  air, 
staring  at  it  as  it  floated  away.  I  waited  while  he  blew 
another  ring,  the  look  on  his  face  as  conscious  as  an 
actor's  when  he  has  the  middle  of  the  stage.  Then  he 
spoke  in  a  weighty  tone : 

"Harland  was  in  love — ^madly  in  love." 

This  was  news  to  me.  I  hadn't  looked  for  it  and  I 
didn't  know  where  it  might  lead.    I  didn't  have  to  hide 

150 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


my  interest ;  he  expected  it,  was  gratified  when  he  saw 
me  open-mouthed.  But  he  had  to  do  a  little  more  act- 
ing, and  tapping  on  his  wine  glass  with  his  forefinger 
said  languid  to  the  waiter: 

"Fill  it  up — the  lady  won't  take  any."  Then,  his 
eyes  following  the  smoke  rings — "Nobody  had  an  idea 
of  it — nobody  but  me.  I  knew  Harland  better  than 
many  who  considered  themselves  his  friends." 

^'You  knew  him,"  it  came  out  of  me  before  I  thought, 
or  I'd  never  have  put  the  accent  on  the  "you"  that  way. 

"I  knew  him  well.  He'd — er — taken  rather  a  fancy 
to  me." 

I  couldn't  say  anything — the  man  he'd  killed !  For- 
tunately he  didn't  notice  me.  The  wine  he'd  taken  was 
beginning  to  make  him  less  sharp.  Not  that  he  was 
under  the  influence,  but  he  was  not  so  clear-headed  and 
his  natural  vanity  was  coming  up  plainer  every  minute. 
He  went  on: 

"I  met  him  quite  casually  in  the  Black  Eagle  Build- 
ing and  then — ^well,  something  about  me  attracted  him. 
Anyway  we  grew  friendly — and — er — that's  how  I 
stumbled  on  his  secret." 

"His  love.?" 

He  inclined  his  head  majestically: 

"You  can  see  how  it  was  possible  when  I  tell  you  the 
lady  was  Miss  Whitehall." 

151 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Believe  me  I  got  a  thrill!  There  was  a  second  when 
I  had  to  bite  on  my  under  lip  to  keep,  an  exclamation 
from  bursting  out.  This  was  something,  something 
that  no  one  had  had  a  suspicion  of,  something  that 
might  lead — I  couldn't  follow  it  then — that  time,  what 
I  had  to  do  was  to  find  out  everything  he  knew. 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  breathed  out  incredulous. 

**Perfectly.     He  was  dafFy  about  her." 

"You  just  guessed  it?" 

He  suddenly  wheeled  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  me, 
with  that  same  piercing,  almost  fierce  look  I'd  seen  be- 
fore. The  wine  he'd  been  drinking  showed  red  in  his 
face,  and  in  his  manner  there  was  a  roughness  that  was 
new. 

"Of  course  I  guessed  it.  A  man  like  Harland  doesn't 
go  round  telling  you  he's  in  love.  But  I'm  a  pretty 
sharp  chap.  Many  things  don't  escape  me.  He  didn't 
have  to  tell  me.     I  was  on  the  spot  and  I  saw,^^ 

Why  didn't  lola  see?  She  was  on  the  spot  too  and 
when  it  came  to  romance  no  man  that  breathes  has 
anything  on  lola.  I  ventured  as  carefully  as  if  I  was 
walking  on  the  subway  tracks,  and  didn't  know  which 
was  the  third  rail. 

"He  tried  to  keep  it  a  secret?" 

"Oh,  he  tried  and  I  guess  he  did  except  from  little 
Tony." 

152 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"What  did  she  feel— Miss  Whitehall— about  him?" 

"Not  the  way  he  did." 

"Perhaps  there  was  someone  else?" 

A  meaning  look  came  over  his  face  and  he  said  softly : 

"Perhaps  there  was." 

"Who?" 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  an  interest  that  stole 
into  my  voice  without  my  knowledge  or  some  instinct 
that  warned  him,  but  suddenly  he  pulled  himself  up. 
The  lounging  swagger  dropped  from  him,  and  he  gave 
me  a  look  from  under  his  eyebrows,  sullen  and  question- 
ing. Then  like  a  big  animal,  restless  and  uneasy,  he 
glanced  over  the  littered-up  table,  pushing  his  napkin 
in  among  the  glasses  and  muttering  something  about 
the  wine.  I  didn't  want  him  to  know  I  was  watching 
and  hunted  in  my  lap  for  my  gloves.  But  to  say  I  was 
keen  isn't  the  word,  for  I  could  see  into  him  as  if  his 
chest  was  plate  glass  and  what  I  saw  was  that  he  was 
scared  he'd  said  too  much. 

"How  should  I  know?"  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  as  if 
there'd  been  no  pause.  "I  don't  know  anything  about 
Miss  Whitehall.  Just  happening  to  be  round  in  the 
office  I  caught  on  to  Harland's  infatuation.  Anyone 
would.  She  may  have  a  dozen  strings  to  her  bow  for 
all  I  know  or  care."  He  gave  me  an  investigating  look 
— ^how  was  I  taking  it? — and  I  smiled  innocently  back. 

153 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


That  reassured  him  and  he  twisted  round  in  his  chair, 
snapping  his  fingers  at  the  waiter,  "Here,  lively — my 
bill.     Don't  keep  us  waiting  all  night." 

The  waiter  who'd  been  hovering  round  watching  us 
eating  through  those  layers  of  food  darted  off  like  a 
dog  freed  from  the  leash.  Mr.  Ford  subsided  back  into 
his  chair.  He  was  more  at  ease,  but  not  all  right  yet 
as  his  words  proved. 

"Don't  you  go  quoting  me,  now,  as  having  said  any- 
thing about  Harland  and  Miss  Whitehall.  He's  in  his 
grave,  poor  chap,  and  I  don't  like  to  figure  as  having 
talked  over  his  private  affairs.  Doesn't  look  well,  you 
know." 

"Sure,"  I  said  comfortably.    "I'm  on." 

My  gloves  were  buttoned  and  my  veil  down.  Mr. 
Ford,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  was  looking  at 
me  with  what  he  thought  was  a  romantic  gaze,  long 
and  deep.  In  my  opinion  he  looked  like  a  fool — men 
mostly  do  when  they're  trying  to  be  sentimental  on  a 
heavy  meal.  But  I  wasn't  worrying  about  that.  What 
was  engaging  me  was  how  I  could  shake  him  without 
telling  him  who  I  was  or  where  I  lived.  In  the  first  ex- 
citement of  corralling  him  I'd  never  thought  of  it.  Now 
the  result  of  my  rash  act  was  upon  me.  If  you  ever 
dine  with  a  murderer,  take  my  advice — when  you  start 
in  lay  your  pipes  for  getting  out. 

154* 


"It  was  locked  or  I  would  have  gone  in." 


«    1     »  .' 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


As  we  waited  for  that  bill  I  was  as  uncomfortable  as 
if  I  had  to  pay  it.  Suppose  I  couldn't  escape  and  he 
followed  me  home?  Babbitts  would  be  like  the  mad 
elephant  in  the  Zoo,  and  from  what  I  knew  of  Tony 
Ford  he  might  draw  a  pistol  and  make  me  a  widow. 

"Have  you  enjoyed  your  dinner,  little  one?"  said  he, 
soft  and  slushy. 

"Fine!"  I  answered,  pulling  my  coat  off  the  chair 
back. 

"We've  got  to  be  good  friends,  haven't  we?" 

"Pals,"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  think  we  know  each  other  well  enough  for 
you  to  tell  me  your  name?" 

"They  say  there's  a  great  charm  about  the  un- 
known," I  answered.  "And  I  want  to  be  as  charming 
as  it's  possible  with  the  restrictions  nature's  put  upon 
me." 

"You  don't  need  any  extra  trimmings,"  said  he. 
"You  might  as  well  tell  me,  for  I  can  always  find  out 
at  the  Black  Eagle  Building." 

Could  he?  I  was  Miss  Morgenthau  there,  and  today 
was  positively  my  last  appearance.  If  I  could  get  away 
from  him  now  I  was  safe  from  his  ever  finding  me. 

The  waiter  brought  the  bill  with  murmurings  that 
it  was  to  be  paid  at  the  desk.  We  rose,  Mr.  Ford  feel- 
ing in  his  pocket,  the  waiter  trying  to  look  listless,  as 

1-55 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


if  money  was  no  treat  to  him.  I  moved  across  the 
room  and  reconnoitered.  The  desk,  with  a  fat  gray- 
haired  woman  sitting  behind  it,  was  close  by  the  door 
that  led  into  the  hall.  Several  people  were  out  there 
putting  on  coats  and  hats  and  jabbering  together  in  a 
foreign  lingo.  I  sauntered  carelessly  through  the  door- 
way, seeing,  out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye,  Mr.  Ford  put 
down  a  twenty-dollar  bill  on  the  counter.  The  gray- 
haired  woman  began  to  pull  out  little  drawers  and  make 
change.  One  of  the  people  in  the  hall  opened  the  front 
door  and  they  began  filing  out.  I  went  with  them,  slow 
on  their  heels  at  first,  then  fast,  dodging  between  them, 
then  like  a  streak  down  the  steps  to  the  sidewalk  and 
up  the  street. 

It  was  an  awful  place  to  hide  in — all  lights  and  show 
windows ;  a  fish  might  as  well  try  to  conceal  itself  in  a 
parlor  aquarium.  There  wasn't  a  niche  that  you  could 
have  squeezed  a  cat  into  and  I  had  to  get  somewhere. 
Suddenly  I  saw  a  narrow  flight  of  stairs  with  a  large 
set  of  teeth  hanging  over  them  and  up  that  I  went, 
stumbling  on  my  skirt  till  I  reached  a  landing  and  flat- 
tened back  against  the  dentist's  door.  It  was  locked 
or  I  would  have  gone  in,  so  scared  I  was  of  that  man — 
gone  in,  and  if  the  price  of  concealment  had  been  a  set 
of  false  teeth  I  make  no  doubt  I'd  have  ordered  them. 

After  a  while  I  ventured  down,  took  a  look  out  and 
166 


^TUe  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


stole  away,  dodging  along  dark  side  streets  and  round 
corners  with  my  muff  up  against  my  face,  till  I  struck 
a  cab  stand.  Not  a  word  came  out  of  me  till  I  was 
safe  inside  a  taxi,  and  then  I  almost  whispered  my  ad- 
dress to  the  chauffeur. 

As  we  sped  along  I  quieted  down  and  began  to  think 
— going  over  what  he'd  said,  connecting  things  up. 
And  as  I  thought,  bouncing  round  in  that  empty  ve- 
hicle like  one  small  pea  in  a  pod  that  was  too  big,  I  saw 
it  plainer  and  plainer,  as  if  one  veil  after  another  was 
being  lifted.  Harland  was  in  love  with  her — she'd  not 
gone  down  in  the  elevator — she'd  stayed  there!  she'd 
been  there!     She'd — 

We  went  over  a  chuck  hole  and  I  bounced  up  nearly 
to  the  roof,  but  the  smothered  cry  that  came  from  me 
wasn't  because  of  that.  It  was  because  I  saw — the 
whole  thing  was  as  clear  as  daylight.  She^d  been  the 
lure  that  brought  him  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates, 
she^d  been  the  person  that  kept  him  in  the  front  office 
while  Barker  came  down  from  the  story  above ! 


CHAPTER  XI 
JACK  TELLS   THE   STORY 

THE  account  of  Molly's  dinner  with  Tony  Ford 
was  given  Sunday  morning  by  Molly  herself 
to  George  and  the  chief  in  the  Whitney  home. 
I  went  there  in  the  afternoon — dread  of  possible  devel- 
opments drew  me  like  a  magnet — and  heard  the  news. 
It  was  more  ominous  than  even  I,  steeled  and  primed 
for  ill  tidings,  had  expected.  I  didn't  say  much.  There 
was  no  use  in  showing  my  disbelief ;  besides  if  they  sus- 
pected its  strength  there  was  a  possibility  of  their  con- 
fidence being  withheld  from  me.  I  had  to  hear  every- 
thing, be  familiar  with  every  strand  in  the  net  they 
were  weaving  round  the  woman  of  whose  guilt  they  were 
now  certain. 

George  was  going  to  call  somewhere  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  I  walked  up  with  him,  for  the  pleasure  of  his  com- 
pany he  supposed,  in  reality  to  hear  in  detail  how  he 
and  the  chief  had  pieced  into  logical  sequence  the 
broken  bits  of  information. 

"Roughly  speaking,"  he  said,  "it's  this  way:  Bar- 
ker was  the  brains  of  the  combination,  Ford  and  Miss 

158 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Whitehall  the  instruments  he  used.  Ford  did  the  kill- 
ing and  was  paid.  Miss  Whitehall's  part,  which  was 
puzzling  before,  is  now  clear.  She  takes  her  place  as 
The  Woman  in  the  Case,  the  spider  that  decoyed  the 
fly  into  the  web." 

He  paused  for  me  to  answer,  but  I  could  say  noth- 
ing. 

"It  was  one  of  the  most  ingenious  plots  I've  ever 
come  up  against.  A  master  mind  conceived  it  and 
must  have  been  days  perfecting  it.  Think  of  the  skill 
with  which  every  detail  was  developed,  and  those  two 
alibis — Ford's  and  Barker's.  How  carefully  they  were 
carried  out.  That  afternoon  visit  of  Harland  to  Miss 
Whitehall  was  planned.  Barker  followed  it  and  heard 
that  all  was  ready — the  trap  set  and  the  quarry  com- 
ing. Then  he  went  up  to  the  floor  above  establishing 
his  presence  there,  and  knowing,  when  Harland  left, 
that  the  girl  was  waiting  below  to  meet  and  hold  him  in 
the  front  room. 

"Then  comes  Tony  Ford,  finds  Harland  and  Miss 
Whitehall,  apologizes  and  goes  through  to  the  private 
office  where  Barker  is  lying  low.  That  the  murder  was 
committed  there  is  proved  by  the  two  blood  spots. 
Ford  established  his  alibi  by  leaving;  Barker's  is  al- 
ready established — he  is  in  the  room  above  unable  to 
get  out  without  being  seen.     Even  if  a  crime  had  been 

159 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


discovered,  they  were  both  as  safe  from  suspicion  as  if 
they'd  been  in  their  own  homes. 

"Miss  Whitehall  and  Barker  stay  in  the  Azalea 
Woods  Estates  office  till  the  excitement  in  the  street 
subsides.  They're  perfectly  safe  there ;  the  police,  when 
they  come,  are  going  to  go  to  the  floor  above.  When 
the  crowd  disperses  they  leavj  by  the  service  stairs,  she 
first,  Barker  a  short  while  afterward.  The  building 
and  the  street  are  deserted,  but  even  if  he  is  seen,  no- 
body knows  enough  at  that  time  to  question  his  move- 
ments. After  that  it  all  goes  without  a  hitch,  even  the 
arrest  of  the  chauffeur  was  all  to  the  good,  as  it  de- 
layed the  search  for  two  days. 

"When  it's  known  that  he  has  voluntarily  disap- 
peared, what's  the  explanation?  He's  welched  on  his 
associates  and  found  it  best  to  take  to  the  tall  timber. 
At  this  moment  he's  probably  congratulating  himself  on 
his  success.  There's  just  one  thing  that,  so  far,  he 
hasn't  been  able  to  accomplish — get  his  girl." 

I  walked  along,  not  answeriiig.  It  was  pretty  sick- 
ening to  hear  how  straight  they  had  it.  But  there 
was  one  weak  spot ;  at  least  I  thought  it  was  weak. 

"Just  why  do  you  think  a  girl  like  Miss  Whitehall — 
a  woman  without  a  spot  or  stain  on  her — would  lend 
herself  to  an  affair  like  that?" 

"Perfectly  simple,"  he  answered.  *'She  expects  to 
160 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


marry  Barker.  Whether  she  loves  him  or  his  money, 
her  actions  prove  that  she  is  ready  to  join  him  when- 
ever he  sends  for  her — ready  to  do  what  he  tells  her. 
He's  a  tremendous  personality,  stronger  than  she,  and 
he's  bent  her  to  his  will." 

"Oh,  rot!"  I  said.  "You  can't  bend  a  perfectly 
straight  woman  to  help  in  such  a  crime  unless  she's 
bent  that  way  by  nature,  and  she  isn't." 

He  grinned  in  a  complacent,  maddening  way, 

"I  guess  Barker  could.  He's  as  subtle  as  the  serpent 
in  Eden.  Besides,  how  can  you  be  so  sure  what  kind 
of  a  girl  she  is  ?  Who  knows  anything  of  these  White- 
halls?  They  came  from  the  West  two  years  ago  and 
settled  on  a  farm — quiet,  ladylike  women — but  not  a 
soul  has  any  real  information  about  them  or  their  an- 
tecedents. And  they  haven't  given  out  much.  They've 
been  curiously  secretive  all  along  the  line.  I'm  not  say- 
ing the  girl's  a  natural  born  criminal — she  doesn't  look 
the  part — but  you'll  have  to  admit  her  speech  and  her 
actions  are  not  those  of  a  simple-minded  rustic  beauty. 
In  my  opinion  she's  fallen  under  Barker's  spell,  and 
he's  molded  her  to  his  purpose.  He^s  the  one,  he^s  the 
brain.     She  and  Ford  were  only  the  two  hands." 

We'd  reached  the  place  he  was  bound  for,  and  I  was 
glad  to  break  away.  I  wanted  to  think,  and  the  more 
I  thought  the  more  wild  and  fantastic  and  incredible 

161 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


it  seemed.  A  week  ago  a  girl  like  any  other  girl,  and 
today  suspected  of  complicity  in  a  primitively  savage 
crime.  I  thought  of  the  case  they  were  building  up 
against  her  and  I  thought  of  her  in  her  room  that  morn- 
ing, and  it  seemed  the  maddest  nightmare.  Then  her 
face  that  day  in  the  Whitney  office  rose  on  my  memory, 
the  stealthily  watching  eyes  with  their  leaping  fires, 
the  equivocations,  the  lies !  I  walked  for  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon,  miles,  somewhere  out  in  the  country. 
My  brain  was  dried  like  a  sponge  in  the  sun  as  I  came 
home — I  couldn't  get  anywhere,  couldn't  get  beyond 
that  fundamental  conviction  that  it  wasn't  true.  I 
think  if  she'd  confessed  it  with  her  own  lips  I'd  have 
gone  on  persisting  she  was  innocent. 

Two  days  after  that  a  chain  of  events  began  that  put 
an  end  to  all  inaction  and  plunged  the  Harland  case 
deeper  than  ever  into  sinister  mystery.  I  will  write 
them  down  in  the  order  in  which  they  occurred. 

The  first  was  on  Tuesday — the  Tuesday  night  fol- 
lowing Molly's  dinner  with  Tony  Ford.  That  night 
an  unknown  man  attacked  Ford  in  his  room,  leaving  him 
for  dead. 

For  some  years  Ford  had  lived  in  a  lodging  house  on 
the  East  Side  near  Stuyvesant  Park.  The  place  was 
decent  and  quiet,  run  by  a  widow  and  her  daughter, 
the  inmates  of  a  shabby-genteel  class — rather  an  odd 

162 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


place  for  a  man  of  Ford's  proclivities  to  house  himself. 
It  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned,  brown-stone  fronts, 
set  back  from  the  street  behind  a  little  square  of  gar- 
den, a  short  flagged  path  leading  to  the  front  door. 

On  the  evening  of  the  attack  Ford  had  come  in  about 
half-past  eight,  and,  after  a  few  words  with  his  land- 
lady, who  was  sitting  in  the  reception  room,  had  gone 
upstairs.  A  little  after  ten,  as  they  were  closing  up 
for  the  night,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell  and  the  door 
was  opened  by  the  servant,  a  Swede.  The  widow  was 
as  economical  with  her  gas  as  lodging-house  keepers 
usually  are,  and  the  Swede  said  she  could  only  dimly 
see  the  figure  of  a  man  in  the  vestibule.  He  asked  for 
Mr.  Anthony  Ford,  and  she  told  him  Mr.  Ford  was  in 
and  directed  him  to  a  room  on  the  third  floor  back. 
Without  more  words  he  entered  and  went  up  the  stairs. 
After  locking  the  door  she  followed  him,  being  on  her 
way  to  bed.  When  she  reached  the  third  floor  he  was 
standing  at  Ford's  door,  and,  as  she  ascended  to  the 
fourth,  she  heard  his  knock  and  Ford's  voice  from  the 
inside  call  out,  "Hello,  who's  that?" 

When  the  police  asked  her  about  the  man's  appear- 
ance her  description  was  meager.  He  had  worn  the 
collar  of  his  overcoat  turned  up  and  kept  on  his  hat. 
All  that  she  could  make  out  in  the  brief  moment  when 
he  crossed  the  hall  to  the  stairs   was  that  his   eyes 

163 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


looked  bright  and  dark,  that  he  wore  glasses,  and  that 
he  had  a  large  aquiline  nose.  She  thought  he  had  a 
white  mustache,  but  on  this  point  was  uncertain,  as 
the  upturned  collar  hid  the  lower  part  of  his  face. 

Babbitts,  who  reported  the  affair  for  the  Dispatch 
and  for  the  Whitney  office  on  the  side,  questioned  the 
girl  carefully.  She  was  stupid,  not  long  landed,  and 
could  only  be  sure  of  the  nose  and  the  glasses.  But 
one  thing  he  elicited  from  her  was  an  important  touch 
in  this  impressionist  picture — the  man  was  small.  When 
he  passed  her  in  the  hall  she  noticed  that  he  was  not 
so  tall  as  she  was,  and  he  moved  quickly  and  lightly  as 
he  went  up  the  stairs. 

On  the  third  floor  front  were  two  rooms,  one  vacant, 
one  occupied  by  a  boy  named  Salinger,  a  clerk  in  a 
nearby  publishing  house.  Salinger  came  in  at  half- 
past  ten,  and  as  he  passed  Ford's  door  heard  in  the 
room  men's  voices,  one  loud,  one  low.  A  sentence  in 
the  raised  voice — it  did  not  sound  like  Ford's — caught 
his  ear.  The  tone  denoted  anger,  likewise  the  words: 
"I've  come  for  something  more  than  talk.  Fve  had 
enough  of  that." 

Knowing  Ford  was  out  of  work  he  supposed  he  was 
having  a  row  with  a  dun,  and  passed  on  to  his  own 
room,  where  he  went  to  bed  and  read  a  novel.  He  was 
so  engrossed  in  this  that  he  said  he  would  not  have 

164 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


heard  anyone  come  or  go  in  the  hall,  but  the  landlady, 
who  with  her  daughter  occupied  the  parlor  on  the 
ground  floor,  at  a  little  before  eleven  heard  steps  de- 
scending the  stairs  and  the  front  door  open  and  close. 

It  wasn't  till  nearly  two  in  the  morning  that  Salinger 
was  wakened  by  a  feeble  knocking.  He  jumped  up,  and 
before  he  could  reach  the  door  heard  a  heavy  fall  in 
the  passage.  There,  prostrate  by  the  sill,  lay  Ford, 
unconscious,  his  head  laid  open  by  a  deep  wound. 

Salinger  dragged  him  back  to  his  room,  then  roused 
the  landlady,  who  sent  for  a  doctor.  He  told  Babbitts 
that  the  place  gave  no  evidence  of  a  struggle,  the  drop- 
light  was  burning,  a  chair  drawn  close  to  it,  and  a  book 
lying  face  down  on  the  table  as  if  Ford  had  been  read- 
ing when  the  stranger  interrupted  him.  On  the  floor 
near  a  desk  standing  between  the  two  windows,  a 
trickle  of  blood  showed  where  Ford  had  fallen,  suggest- 
ing that  the  attack  had  been  made  from  behind  as  he 
stood  over  the  desk.  The  doctor  pronounced  the  in- 
jury serious.  The  blow  had  been  delivered  on  the  back 
of  the  head,  and  Ford's  condition  was  critical. 

When  the  police  turned  up  they  could  find  nothing  to 
give  them  a  clue  to  the  assailant — no  finger  prints,  no 
foot  marks,  no  weapon  or  implement.  Ford  had  been 
stricken  down  by  one  violent  blow,  falling  on  him  sud- 
denly and  evidently  unexpectedly.     He  was  taken  to 

165 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  hospital,  unconscious,  no  one  knowing  whether  he 
would  die  before  they  could  get  a  statement  out  of 
him. 

The  cause  of  the  assault  was  at  first  puzzling.  Rob- 
bery seemed  improbable,  as  a  man  in  Ford's  position 
was  not  likely  to  have  much  money  and  as  his  gold 
watch  and  chain  were  found  in  full  view  on  the  table. 
But  when  the  first  excitement  quieted  down  one  of  the 
women  in  the  house  came  forward  with  the  story  that 
a  few  days  before  Ford  had  told  her  he  had  recently 
been  left  a  legacy  by  an  uncle  up-state,  and  in  proof 
of  his  newly  acquired  wealth  had  shown  her  two  fifty- 
dollar  bills.  This  put  a  different  face  on  the  matter. 
If  Ford  had  carried  such  sums  on  him,  it  was  probable 
the  fact  had  become  known  and  burglary  been  the  mo- 
tive of  the  attack. 

The  police  looked  over  the  papers  in  his  wallet  and 
desk  but  found  nothing  that  threw  any  light  on  the 
mystery.  Babbitts  was  present  at  this  search  and 
found  three  letters — tossed  aside  by  the  city  detectives 
as  having  no  bearing  on  the  subject — that  he  knew 
must  be  seen  by  Whitney  &  Whitney.  He  and  the  pre- 
cinct captain  had  hobnobbed  together  over  many  cases, 
and  a  few  sentences  in  the  hall  resulted  in  the  transfer 
of  the  papers  to  Babbitts'  breast  pocket  with  a  prom- 
ise to  return  them  the  next  day. 

166 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I'll  give  you  these  letters  later  on — when  we  pored 
over  them  in  the  old  man's  private  office. 

In  the  hospital  Ford  came  back  to  consciousness  long 
enough  to  make  an  ante-mortem  statement.  It  was 
short  and  explicit,  satisfying  the  authorities,  who  didn't 
know  that  the  victim  himself  was  a  criminal  with  mat- 
ters in  his  own  life  to  hide.  Here  it  is,  copied  from 
the  evening  paper : 

I  don't  know  who  the  man  was.  I  never  saw  him 
before.  He  had  some  story  that  he  knew  me  and 
asked  for  money.  I  tried  to  stand  him  off,  but  when 
he  got  threatening,  not  wanting  him  to  make  a  row  in 
the  house,  I  went  to  the  desk  where  I  had  a  few  loose 
bills  in  a  drawer.  It  was  while  I  was  standing  there 
with  my  back  to  him,  that  he  struck  me.  I  don't  know 
what  he  did  it  with — something  he  had  under  his  coat. 
When  I  came  to  myself  later  I  got  to  Salinger's  door. 
That's  all  I  know.  A  week  ago  I'd  had  some  money 
on  me — ^part  of  a  small  legacy — ^but  I'd  banked  it  a 
few  days  before.  He  must  have  heard  of  it  some  way 
and  was  after  it. 

That  settled  the  question  as  far  as  the  police  and  the 
general  public  went.  That  the  watch  and  chain  were 
not  touched  nor  the  few  dollars  in  the  desk  drawer  was 
pointed  to  as  positive  proof  that  Ford's  assailant  was 
no  common  sneak  thief  or  second-story  man.     He  was 

167 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


not  wasting  his  time  on  small  change  or  articles  diffi- 
cult to  dispose  of.  For  a  few  days  the  police  hunted 
for  him,  but  not  a  trace  of  him  was  to  be  found.  "An 
old  hand,"  they  had  it,  "dropped  back  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  underworld." 

There  was  not  a  detective  or  reporter  in  New  York 
who  connected  that  half-seen  figure,  stealing  by  night 
into  a  cheap  lodging  house,  with  the  financier  whose 
disappearance  had  been  the  nine  days'  wonder  of  the 
season. 

On  Wednesday  evening  Babbitts  brought  the  letters 
to  the  Whitney  office  (we  were  all  there  but  Molly), 
and  we  sat  round  the  table  passing  the  papers  from 
hand  to  hand. 

One  was  on  a  sheet  of  Harland's  business  stationery 
and  was  in  Harland's  writing,  which  both  George  and 
the  chief  knew.  It  was  dated  January  second,  and  ran 
as  follows: 

Dear  Ford, 

Excellent.    If  possible,  I'll  try  to  see  you  tomorrow. 
I'll  be  going  down  to  lunch  about  one.    Yours, 

H.  H. 

As  a  document  in  the  case  it  had  no  especial  value, 
beyond  confirming  the  fact  that  Ford  was — as  he  had 
told  Molly — on  friendly  terms  with  the  lawyer. 

168 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  others  were  of  vital  significance.  They  were  on 
small  oblongs  of  white  paper,  the  finely  nicked  upper 
edge  indicating  they  had  been  attached  to  a  writing 
tablet.  Both  were  in  ink,  and  in  the  same  hand,  rapid 
and  scratchy,  the  words  trailing  off  in  unfinished 
scrawls.  Neither  had  any  address,  but  both  bore  dates : 
one  December  27  and  the  othel*  January  10. 
Here  is  the  first: 

December  27. 
Dear  Girl, 

Thanks  for  your  note.  Things  begin  to  look  more 
encouraging.  That  I  must  stand  back  and  let  you  do 
so  much — win  our  way  by  your  cleverness  and  per- 
suasion— is  a  trial  to  my  patience.  But  my  time  will 
come  later. 

J.  W.  B. 

The  signature  was  a  hurried  scratch.  Babbitts  said 
the  police  had  glanced  at  the  letter,  set  it  down  as  the 
copy  of  a  note  Ford  had  written  to  some  girl,  and 
thrown  it  aside.  Those  half-formed  initials  might  have 
been  anything  to  the  casual,  uninterested  eye. 

The  second,  dated  January  10,  was  a  little  longer : 

Dearest, 

I  hoped  to  see  you  today  but  couldn't  make  it.  So 
our  end  seems  to  be  in  sight — at  last  approaching 
after  our  planning  and  waiting.     What  a  sensation 

169 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


we*re  going  to  make!     But  it  won't  touch  us.     We're 

strong  enough  to  dare  anything  when  our  happiness  is 

the  stake. 

J.  W.  B. 

We  agreed  with  O'Mally  when  he  sized  these  letters 
up  as  copies  in  Ford's  hand — he  had  samples  of  it — 
of  notes  written  by  Barker  to  Carol  Whitehall.  The 
reason  for  Ford's  taking  them  was  not  hard  to  guess 
with  our  knowledge  of  the  gunman's  character. 

"It  shows  him  up  as  a  pretty  tough  specimen,"  said 
the  detective,  astride  on  a  chair  with  a  big  black  cigar 
in  the  corner  of  his  mouth.  "He  wasn't  going  to  lose 
a  trick.  While  he  was  working  for  Barker  he  was  gath- 
ering all  the  evidence  against  his  employer  that  his 
position  in  the  Whitehall  office  gave  him  access  to." 

"Laying  his  plans  for  blackmail,"  said  George. 

"That's  it.  He  had  his  eagle  eye  trained  on  the  fu- 
ture. When  Barker  and  his  girl  were  feeling  safe  in 
some  secluded  corner,  these  letters — documentary  tes- 
timony to  the  plot — could  be  used  as  levers  to  extort 
more  money." 

"Do  you  suppose  Barker  was  on  to  it  and  decided 
to  get  him  out  of  the  way  before  he  had  a  chance  to 
use  them?"  said  Babbitts. 

"No — I  don't  see  it  that  way.  There  was  no  indi- 
cation in  the  room  of  a  search.     I  guess  Barker  acted 

170 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


on  the  principle  that  the  fewer  people  share  a  secret 
the  easier  it  is  to  keep." 

"Looks  to  me,"  said  George,  "as  if  Ford  had  made 
some  move  that  scared  the  old  man.  Coming  back  that 
way  into  a  house  full  of  people !  Considering  the  cir- 
cumstances he  took  a  mighty  big  risk." 

"Not  as  big  a  one  as  having  Ford  at  large,"  an- 
swered O'Mally.  "You've  got  to  remember  that  not 
one  of  the  three  knows  the  murder  has  been  discovered. 
They  think  they're  as  safe  as  bugs  in  a  rug.  With  Ford 
out  of  it  the  only  menace  to  Barker's  safety  is  re- 
moved. I  look  at  this  as  a  last  perfecting  touch,  the 
coping  stone  on  the  edifice." 

The  chief,  who  had  been  silently  pacing  back  and 
forth  across  the  end  of  the  room,  came  slouching  to  the 
table  and  picked  up  the  longer  of  the  two  letters. 
Holding  it  to  the  light  he  read  it  over  murmuringly, 
then  dropped  it  and  said : 

**Curious  that  a  man  who  had  conceived  such  a  plot 
would  allude  to  it  in  writing." 

I  spoke  up.  What  seemed  to  me  the  first  rational 
words  of  the  meeting  gave  me  my  cue. 

"What  makes  you  so  sure  the  thing  alluded  to  in  those 
letters  is  the  murder.?" 

I  was  standing  back  between  the  window  and  the 
table.     They  all  squared  round  in  their  chairs  to  stare 

171 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


at  me,  O'Mallj  bending  his  head  to  level  a  scornful 
glance  below  the  shade  of  the  electric  standard. 

"What  else  could  they  allude  to?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know.  Nobody,  not  a  person  here,  knows 
all  that  existed  between  Barker  and  Miss  Whitehall. 
There's  no  reason  to  take  for  granted  that  the  plan, 
scheme,  whatever  you  like  to  call  it  those  letters  in- 
dicate, was  the  killing  of  Harland." 

O'Mally  gave  an  exasperated  grunt  and  cast  an  eye 
of  derisive  question  at  the  chief.  It  enraged  me  and 
my  hands  gripped  together. 

"Oh,  Lord,  Jack,  you're  nutty,"  said  George.  "We 
know  Barker  and  Miss  Whitehall  were  in  love,  and  we 
know  Barker  committed  the  murder,  and  we  know  she 
helped.  That  was  enough  to  occupy  their  minds  with- 
out going  off  on  side  mysteries." 

Nature  has  cursed  me  with  a  violent  temper.  Dur- 
ing the  last  two  years — since  the  dark  days  of  the  Hes- 
keth  tragedy — I've  thought  it  was  conquered — a  leashed 
beast  of  which  I  was  the  master.  Now  suddenly  it  rose, 
pulling  at  its  chain.  I  felt  the  old  forgotten  stir  of  it, 
the  rush  of  boiling  blood  that  in  the  end  made  me  blind. 
I  had  sense  enough  left  to  know  I'd  got  to  keep  it  down 
and  I  did  it.  But  if  there'd  been  no  need  for  restraint, 
for  dissimulation,  it  would  have  burst  out  as  it  has  in  the 
past,  burst  against  O'Mally  with  a  fist  in  the  middle  of 

172 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


his  cocksure,  sneering  face,  I  heard  my  voice,  husky, 
but  steady,  as  I  said, 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  how  about  what  the  chief 
has  just  said?  Why  should  Barker  write  when  he  could 
say  what  he  wanted?  Why  did  he,  so  cautious  in  every 
other  way,  do  a  thing  a  green  boy  would  have  known 
the  danger  of?  You're  building  up  your  whole  case 
on  the  vaguest  surmises." 

O'Mally  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  his  eyes 
narrowed  and  full  of  an  ugly  fire. 

**I  suppose  the  initial  fact  that  a  murder's  been  com- 
mitted is  surmise?" 

"No,"  I  came  nearer  the  table,  the  blood  singing  in 
my  ears,  "it's  your  evidence  against  the  woman,  that 
you're  twisting  and  coloring  to  match  your  precon- 
ceived theories.  There's  not  an  attempt  been  made  to 
reconcile  her  previous  record  with  the  villainous  act  of 
which  you  accuse  her.  There's  a  gulf  there  you  can't 
bridge.  Why  don't  you  go  down  into  the  foundations 
of  the  thing  instead  of  putting  your  attention  on  sur- 
face indications?  Why  don't  you  go  into  the  psychol- 
ogy of  it,  build  on  that,  not  the  material  facts  that  a 
child  could  see?" 

I  don't  believe  one  of  them  guessed  the  state  I  was 
in — took  my  vehemence  as  an  enthusiasm  for  impartial 
justice.    But  a  few  minutes  more  of  it  and  the  old  fury 

173 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


would  have  broken  loose.  I  saw  O'Mally's  face,  red 
through  a  red  mist,  saw  he  was  mad,  mad  straight 
through,  enraged  at  the  aspersions  on  his  ability.  He 
got  up,  ready  to  answer,  and  Lord  knows  what  would 
have  happened — a  rough  and  tumble  round  the  room 
probably — if  the  door  hadn't  opened  and  a  clerk  put  in 
his  head  with  the  announcement: 

"A  gentleman  on  the  phone  wants  Mr.  O'Mally." 

The  words  transformed  the  detective ;  his  anger  van- 
ished as  if  it  never  had  been.  Quick  as  a  wink  he  made 
for  the  door,  flinging  back  over  his  shoulder: 

"I  told  them  at  the  office  if  anything  turned  up  I'd 
be  here.    There's  something  doing." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  rest  of  us,  the  tense  quiet  of  ex- 
pectancy. The  fire  in  me  died  like  a  flame  when  a 
bellows  is  dropped.  News — any  news — might  bring 
help  for  her,  exonerate  her,  wipe  away  the  stain  of  the 
suspicions  that  no  one  but  we  six  would  ever  know. 

The  door  opened  and  O'Mally  entered.  His  face  was 
illuminated,  shining  with  an  irrepressible  triumph,  his 
movements  quick  and  instinctively  stealthy.  Pushing 
the  door  to  behind  him  he  said  as  softly  as  if  the  walls 
had  ears: 

"They've  got  Barker  in  Philadelphia." 


CHAPTER  XII 
JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

INSIDE  an  hour  O'Mallj,  Babbitts  and  I  were  on 
our  way  to  Philadelphia.  All  friction  was  forgot- 
ten, a  bigger  issue  had  extinguished  the  sparks 
that  had  come  near  bursting  into  flame.  A  mutual 
desire  united  us,  the  finding  of  Barker. 

The  train,  an  express,  seemed  to  crawl  like  a  tor- 
toise, but  the  way  I  felt  I  guess  the  flight  of  an  aero- 
plane would  have  been  slow.  I  had  hideous  fears  that 
he  might  give  iis  the  slip,  but  O'Mally  was  confident. 
One  of  his  men  had  got  a  lead  on  Barker  through  a  ven- 
dor of  newspapers,  from  whom  the  capitalist  twice  in 
the  last  week  had  purchased  the  big  New  York  dailies. 
It  had  taken  several  days  to  locate  his  place  of  hiding — 
a  quiet  boarding  house  far  removed  from  the  center 
of  the  city — which  was  now  under  surveillance.  As 
we  swung  through  the  night,  shut  close  in  a  smoke-filled 
compartment,  we  speculated  as  to  whether  he  woul3 
try  and  throw  a  bluff  or  see  the  game  was  up  and  tell 
the  truth. 

At  the  station  O'Mally's  man  met  us  and  the  four 
175 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


of  us  piled  into  a  taxi,  and  started  on  a  run  across 
town.  It  was  moonlight,  and  going  down  those  quiet 
streets,  lined  with  big  houses  and  then  with  little 
houses — still,  dwindling  vistas  sleeping  in  the  silver  ra- 
diance— seemed  to  me  the  longest  drive  I'd  ever  taken 
in  my  life.  As  we  sped  the  detective  gave  us  further 
particulars.  By  his  instructions  the  newsstand  man, 
who  left  the  morning  papers  at  the  boarding  house,  had 
got  into  communication  with  the  servant,  a  colored 
girl.  From  her  he  had  learnt  that  Barker — ^he  passed 
under  the  name  of  Joseph  Sammis — had  been  away  for 
twenty-four  hours  and  had  come  back  that  morning  so 
ill  that  a  doctor  had  been  called  in.  The  doctor  had 
said  the  man's  heart  was  weak,  and  that  his  condition 
looked  like  the  result  of  strain  or  shock.  Questioned 
further  the  girl  had  said  he  was  "A  pleasant,  civil- 
spoken  old  gentleman,  giving  no  trouble  to  anybody." 
He  went  out  very  little,  sitting  in  his  room  most  of  the 
time  reading  the  papers.  He  received  no  mail  there, 
but  that  he  did  get  letters  she  had  found  out,  as  she 
had  seen  one  on  his  table  addressed  to  the  General  De- 
livery. 

The  house  was  on  a  street,  quiet  and  deserted  at  this 
early  hour,  one  of  a  row  all  built  alike.  As  we  climbed 
out  of  the  taxi  the  moon  was  bright,  the  shadows  lying 
like  black  velvet  across  the  lonely  roadway.     On  the 

176 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


opposite  side,  loitering  slow,  was  a  man,  who,  raising 
a  hand  to  his  hat,  passed  on  into  the  darkness  along  the 
area  railings.  Though  it  was  only  a  little  after  nine, 
many  of  the  houses  showed  the  blankness  of  unlit  win- 
dows, but  in  the  place  where  we  had  stopped  a  fan- 
light over  the  door  glowed  in  a  yellow  semicircle. 

As  the  taxi  moved  off  we  three — O'Mally's  detective 
slipped  away  into  the  shadow  like  a  ghost — walked  up 
a  little  path  to  the  front  door  where  I  pulled  an  old- 
fashioned  bell  handle.  I  could  hear  the  sound  go  jin- 
gling through  the  hall,  loud  and  cracked,  and  then 
steps,  languid  and  dragging,  come  from  somewhere  in 
the  rear.  I  was  to  act  as  spokesman,  my  cue  being 
to  ask  for  Mr.  Sammis  on  a  matter  of  urgent  business. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  colored  girl,  who  looked 
at  us  stupidly  and  then  said  she'd  call  Miss  Graves,  the 
landlady,  as  she  didn't  think  anyone  could  see  Mr. 
Sammis. 

Standing  back  from  the  door  she  let  us  into  a  hall 
with  a  hatrack  on  one  side  and  a  flight  of  stairs  going 
up  at  the  back.  The  light  was  dim,  coming  from  a 
globe  held  aloft  by  a  figure  that  crowned  the  newel 
post.  The  paper  on  the  walls,  some  dark  striped  pat- 
tern, seemed  to  absorb  what  little  radiance  there  was 
and  the  whole  place  smelled  musty  and  was  as  quiet 
as  a  church. 

177 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  colored  girl  had  disappeared  down  a  long  pas- 
sage and  presently  a  door  opened  back  there  and  a 
woman  came  out,  tall  and  thin,  in  a  skimpy  black  dress. 
She  approached  us  as  we  stood  in  a  group  by  the  hat- 
rack,  leaning  forward  near-sightedly  and  blinking  at  us 
through  silver-rimmed  spectacles. 

**My  maid  says  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Sammis,"  she 
said,  in  an  unamiable  voice. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "We've  come  from  New  York 
and  it's  imperative  we  see  him  this  evening." 

"But  you  can't,"  she  snapped.  "He's  sick.  The 
doctor  says  he  mustn't  be  disturbed." 

Talking  it  over  afterward  we  all  confessed  that  we 
were  seized  by  the  same  idea — that  this  lanky  old  spin- 
ster might  be  in  the  game  and  Barker's  illness  was  a 
fake.  Feeling  as  I  did  I  was  ready  to  leap  forward, 
grab  her,  and  lock  her  in  her  own  parlor  while  the 
others  chased  up  the  stairs.  I  could  sense  the  slight, 
uneasy  stir  of  the  two  men  beside  me,  and  I  tried  to 
inject  a  determination  into  my  voice,  that  while  it  was 
civil  was  also  informing: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  absolutely  necessary  that  we 
transact  our  business  with  him  now." 

*'Can't  you  give  me  a  message?"  she  demurred, 
squinting  her  eyes  up  behind  the  glasses.  "I'll  see  that 
it's  delivered  in  the  morning." 

178 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"No,  Madam.  This  is  important  and  can't  wait. 
We  won't  be  long,  we  only  have  to  consult  with  him  for 
a  few  minutes." 

She  gave  a  shrug  as  much  as  to  say,  "Well,  this 
is  your  affair!"  and,  drawing  back,  pointed  to  the 
stairs. 

"He's  up  there,  fourth  floor  front,  second  door  to 
your  left." 

To  each  of  us  the  suspicion  that  she  was  in  with 
Barker  had  grown  with  every  minute.  The  idea  once 
lodged  in  our  minds,  possessed  them,  and  we  went  up 
those  stairs,  slow  at  first,  and  then,  as  we  got  out  of 
earshot,  faster  and  faster.  It  was  a  run  on  the  second 
flight  and  a  gallop  on  the  third.  On  this  landing  there 
was  no  gas  lit,  but  a  window  at  the  end  of  the  passage 
let  in  a  square  of  moonlight  that  lay  bright  on  the 
floor  and  showed  us  the  hall's  dim  length  and  the  out- 
lines of  closed  doors. 

It  was  the  second  of  these,  on  the  left-hand  side,  and 
creeping  toward  it  we  stood  for  a  moment  getting  our 
wind.  The  place  was  very  cold,  as  if  a  window  was 
open,  and  there  was  not  a  sound.  Standing  by  the  door 
O'Mally  knocked  softly.    There  was  no  answer. 

In  that  half-lit  passage,  chilled  with  the  icy  breath 
of  the  winter  night  and  held  in  a  strange  stillness,  I 
was  seized  by  a  grisly  sense  of  impending  horror.     If 

179 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


I'd  been  a  small  boy  my  teeth  would  have  begun  to 
chatter.  At  thirty  years  of  age  that  doesn't  happen, 
but  I  doubt  whether  anyone  whose  body  was  supplied 
with  an  ordinarily  active  nervous  system  would  not 
have  felt  something  sinister  in  that  cold,  dark  place,  in 
the  silence  behind  that  close-shut  door. 

O'Mally  knocked  again  and  again ;  there  was  no  an- 
swer. 

"Try  it,"  I  whispered  and  the  detective  turned  the 
handle. 

"Locked,"  he  breathed  back,  then — "Stand  away 
there.  I'm  going  to  break  it.  There's  something  wrong 
here." 

He  turned  sideways,  bracing  his  shoulder  against  the 
door.  There  was  a  cracking  sound,  and  the  lock,  em- 
bedded in  old  soft  wood,  gave  way,  the  door  swinging 
in  with  O'Mally  hanging  to  the  handle. 

The  room  was  unht  but  for  the  silver  moonlight 
that  came  from  the  window,  uncurtained  and  open.  At 
that  sight  the  same  thought  seized  the  three  of  us — 
the  man  was  gone — and  O'Mally,  fumbling  in  his  pocket 
for  matches,  broke  into  furious  profanity. 

I  had  a  box  and  as  I  dug  round  for  it,  took  a  look 
about,  and  saw  the  shapes  of  a  chair  with  garments 
hanging  over  it,  an  open  desk,  and,  against  the  opposite 
wall,  the  bed.     It  was  only  a  pale  oblong,  and  looked 

180 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


irregular,  as  if  the  clothes  were  heaped  on  it  as  the 
man  had  thrown  them  back.  I  could  have  joined 
O'Mally  in  his  swearing.  Gone — when  our  fingers  were 
closing  on  him !  Then  I  found  the  matches  and  the  gas 
burst  out  over  our  heads. 

My  eyes  were  on  the  bed  and  O'Mally's  must  have 
been,  for  simultaneously  I  gave  an  exclamation  and 
he  leaped  forward.  There,  asleep,  under  the  covers  lay 
a  man.  Quick  as  a  flash  of  lightning  the  detective  was 
beside  him,  bending  to  look  close  at  the  face,  then  he 
drew  back  with  a  sound — a  cry  of  amazement,  disbelief 
— and  pulling  off  the  bed  clothes  laid  his  hand  on  the 
sleeper's  chest. 

"God  in  Heaven!"  he  gasped,  turning  to  us.  *'He's 
dead!" 

Babbitts  and  I  made  a  rush  for  the  bed,  I  to  the 
head,  where  I  leaned  low  to  make  sure,  staring  into  the 
gray,  pale  face  with  its  prominent  nose  and  sunken 
eyes.  Then  it  was  my  turn  to  cry  out,  to  stagger  back, 
looking  from  one  man  to  the  other,  aghast  at  what  I'd 
seen : 

"It's  not  Barker  at  all." 

For  a  moment  we  stared  at  one  another,  jaws  fallen, 
eyes  stony.  Not  a  word  came  from  one  of  us,  the  si- 
lence broken  by  the  hissing  rush  of  the  gas  turned  up 
fuU  cock  in  a  sputtering  ribbon  of  flame.     I  came  to 

181 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


myself  first,  turned  from  them  back  to  the  dead  face, 
its  marble  calm  in  strange  contrast  to  the  stunned  con- 
sternation of  the  living  faces. 

"It's  not  he,"  I  repeated.  "I've  often  seen  him.  It's 
not  the  man." 

"Well — ^well "  stammered  O'Mally,  coming  out 

of  his  stupor.     "Who  on  earth  is  it?" 

"How  do  I  know — Sammis,  I  suppose.  Ifs  like  him 
— the  nose,  the  eyes  and  the  eyebrows,  and  the  mus- 
tache. But,"  I  looked  at  them,  gazing  like  two  stupe- 
fied animals  at  the  head  on  the  piUow,  "it's  not  Johns- 
ton Barker." 

O'Mally,  with  a  groan  of  baffled  desperation,  fell  Into 
a  chair,  his  hands  hanging  over  the  arms,  his  feet  limp 
on  the  floor  before  him.  Babbitts  stood  paralyzed, 
leaning  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  It  was  an  extraordinary 
situation — three  live  men,  hot  on  the  chase  of  a  fourth 
and  in  the  moment  of  victory  faced  by  the  most  inscru- 
table and  solemn  thing  that  life  holds — a  dead  man.  We 
couldn't  get  over  it,  couldn't  seem  to  think  or  act, 
grouped  round  the  bed  with  the  whistling  rush  of  the 
gas  loud  on  the  silence. 

Then  suddenly,  another  and  more  distant  sound 
broke  up  our  stupefaction.  Someone  was  coming  up 
the  stairs.  It  jerked  us  back  to  life,  and  I  made  a  run 
for  the  door,  O'Mally's  whisper  hissing  after  me: 

18g 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"If  it's  that  woman,  keep  her  away  for  a  while.  I 
want  to  go  over  the  room." 

It  was  Miss  Graves,  ascending  slowly  with  the  help 
of  the  balustrade.  I  caught  her  on  the  landing  and 
told  her  what  we'd  found.  She  was  not  greatly  sur- 
prised— the  doctor  had  warned  her.  I  explained  the 
broken  door  by  telling  her  we  had  been  alarmed  by  the 
silence  and  had  forced  our  way  in.  That,  too,  she  took 
quietly,  and  turned  away,  gliding  shadowlike  down 
the  stairs  to  send  out  the  servant  for  the  doctor. 

When  I  reentered  the  room  its  aspect  was  changed. 
A  sheet  covered  the  dead  man  and  O'Mally  and  Bab- 
bitts, with  all  the  burners  in  the  chandelier  blazing,  had 
started  looking  over  the  room.  The  detective  was  al- 
ready at  work  on  the  papers  in  the  desk.  Babbitts  go- 
ing through  the  clothes  over  the  chair  and  the  few 
others  that  hung  in  the  cupboard. 

"Hustle  and  get  busy,"  said  O'Mally,  as  he  heard 
me  come  in.  "If  this  isn't  Johnston  Barker,  it's  the 
man  we've  been  trailing  and  I'm  pretty  sure  it's  the 
one  that  attacked  Ford." 

There  was  a  table  by  the  bedside  with  a  reading  lamp 
and  some  books  on  it.  Moving  these  I  came  upon  two 
newspaper  clippings,  relating  to  the  suicide  of  Har- 
land.  In  both  Anthony  Ford  was  mentioned.  The  re- 
porters had  evidently  spoken  to  him  that  night  on  the 

183 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


street,  gleaning  any  fragments  of  information  they 
could.  One  alluded  to  the  fact  that  he  was  employed 
in  the  offices  below  Harland's,  the  Azalea  Woods  Es- 
tates.    These  words  were  heavily  underlined  in  pencil. 

"Looks  like  it  from  this,"  I  said,  showing  the  clip- 
ping to  O'Mally. 

He  glanced  at  it  and  grunted,  going  back  to  his  in- 
spection of  a  sheaf  of  papers  he  had  found  in  one  of 
the  desk  pigeonholes. 

Meantime  Babbitts  had  found  in  the  coat  that  hung 
over  the  chair  a  wallet  containing  a  hundred  dollars,  a 
tailor's  bill  for  a  suit  and  coat,  receipted  and  bearing 
a  New  York  address,  and  Tony  Ford's  house  and  street 
number  written  in  pencil  on  a  neatly  folded  sheet  of 
note  paper.  Besides  these  there  was  one  letter,  dated 
January  13,  typed  and  bearing  no  signature.  Its 
contents  was  as  follows : 

Enclosed  please  find  one  hundred  dollars  in  two  bills 
of  fifty.  Will  send  same  amount  on  same  date  next 
month  if  work  should  be  still  delayed.  Will  com- 
municate further  later. 

The  envelope,  also  addressed  in  typewriting,  was  di- 
rected to  Joseph  Sammis,  General  Delivery,  Philadel- 
phia, and  bore  a  New  York  postmark. 

We  were  working  too  quickly  for  much  conmient,  but 
184 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Babbitts  held  out  the  paper  with  Ford's  address  on  it 
toward  O'Mally. 

"This  bears  it  out,  too,"  he  said. 

O'Mally  looked  at  it,  and  snapped  the  elastic  back 
on  the  documents  he'd  been  going  over, 

"From  what  I've  seen  here,"  he  said,  "Sammis  was 
the  man  Ford  was  with  in  the  real-estate  business. 
These  are  all  contracts,  bills  and  some  correspondence, 
the  records  of  a  small  venture  that  went  to  smash,'" 
he  pushed  the  roll  back  in  its  pigeonhole — "not  another 
thing." 

^'There's  not  another  thing  in  the  room,"  I  answered, 
^'except  two  novels  and  a  stack  of  New  York  papers 
on  the  floor  there  by  the  bureau.    Hist !  quiet !" 

There  were  feet  coming  up  the  stairs.  In  a  twin- 
kling everything  was  as  it  had  been.  Babbitts  and 
O'Mally  withdrew  to  the  window  and  I  went  out  to  see 
who  was  coming.    It  was  Miss  Graves  and  the  doctor. 

I  explained  the  situation  and  found  the  doctor 
brusquely  businesslike  and  matter-of-fact.  It  was  what 
might  have  been  expected.  When  he  had  been  called 
in  that  morning  he  had  found  Mr.  Sammis  a  very  sick 
man,  suffering  from  angina  pectoris  and  a  general 
condition  of  debility  and  exhaustion.  He  had  asked 
him  if  he  had  been  subjected  to  any  recent  exer- 
tion or  strain  but  been  told  no  other  than  a  trip  the 

185 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


day  before  to  Washington.  Miss  Graves  said  it  was 
undoubtedly  this  trip  that  had  done  the  damage.  He 
had  been  well  when  he  started  on  Tuesday  morning,  but 
on  returning  twenty-four  hours  later  had  been  so  weak 
and  enfeebled  that  one  of  the  other  lodgers  had  had 
to  assist  him  to  his  room.  An  examination  proved 
that  he  had  been  dead  some  hours.  Who  his  relations 
were  or  where  he  came  from  Miss  Graves  had  no  idea 
and  would  turn  the  matter  over  to  the  authorities. 

It  was  close  on  midnight  when  we  left,  and  there  be- 
ing no  vehicle  in  sight  we  walked  up  the  street.  The 
moon  was  as  bright  as  day,  and,  swinging  along  between 
those  two  lines  of  black  houses,  with  here  and  there  a 
light  shining  yellow  in  an  upper  window,  we  were  si- 
lent, each  occupied  by  his  own  thoughts. 

I  could  guess  those  of  the  other  two — ^Babbitts' 
chagrin  at  once  again  losing  his  big  story,  O'Mally's 
sullen  indignation  at  having  followed  a  clue  that  led 
to  such  a  blind  alley.  But  their  disappointment  and 
bitterness  were  nothing  to  mine.  All  my  hopes  gone 
again,  and  this  last  puzzle  helping  in  no  way,  in  no 
way  as  I  then  counted  help. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

TO  say  that  the  expectant  Whitney  office  got  a 
jolt  is  putting  it  mildly.  On  the  threshold 
of  success,  to  meet  such  a  setback  enraged 
George  and  made  even  the  chief  grouchy.  The  new 
developments  added  new  complications  that  upset  their 
carefully  elaborated  theories.  There  had  to  be  a  re- 
adjustment. Whoever  Sammis  was  and  whatever  his 
motive  could  have  been  it  was  undoubtedly  he  who  had 
attacked  Tony  Ford. 

It  was  inexplicable  and  mysterious.  The  chief  had 
an  idea  that  there  was  a  connection  between  Sammis 
and  Barker,  that  the  man  now  dead  might  have  been 
"planted"  in  Philadelphia  to  divert  the  search  from  the 
live  man,  who  had  stolen  to  safety  after  a  rise  to  the 
surface  in  Toronto.  George  scouted  it;  an  accidental 
likeness  had  fooled  them  and  made  them  waste  valuable 
time.  The  devil  was  on  the  side  of  Barker,  taking  care 
of  his  own. 

It  did  look  that  way.  Investigation  of  the  few 
clues  we  had  led  to  nothing.    The  tailor,  whose  bill  was 

187 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


found  in  Sammis's  pocket,  remembered  selling  a  suit  and 
overcoat  to  a  man  called  Sammis  on  January  tenth. 
He  was  a  quiet,  polite  old  party  who  looked  poor  and 
shabby  but  bought  good  clothes  and  paid  spot  cash  for 
them.  The  typewritten  letter  indicated  that  Sammis 
had  been  sent  to  Philadelphia  and  well  paid  for  some 
work  that  had  not  yet  started.  It  was  upon  this  let- 
ter the  chief  based  his  contention  that  Sammis's  ap- 
pearance in  the  case  was  not  a  coincidence — ^he  was 
another  of  Barker's  henchmen,  and  it  was  part  of 
Barker's  luck  that  at  the  crucial  moment  he  should 
have  died. 

But  it  was  all  speculation,  nothing  certain  except 
that  we  had  lost  our  man  again.  Philadelphia  had 
dropped  out  as  a  point  of  interest  and  the  case  swung 
back  to  New  York,  where  it  now  centered  round  the  bed 
of  Tony  Ford. 

We  were  in  constant  communication  with  the  hospital 
and  on  Thursday  received  word  that  Ford  would  re- 
cover. That  lifted  us  up  from  the  smash  of  Wednesday 
night.  When  he  was  able  to  speak  we  would  hear  some- 
thing— everything  if  he  could  be  scared  into  a  full  con- 
fession. The  hospital  authorities  refused  to  let  anyone 
see  him  till  he  was  perfectly  fit,  a  matter  of  several  days 
yet.  That  suited  us,  as  we  wanted  no  speech  with  him 
till  he  was  strong  enough  to  stand  the  shock  of  our 

188 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


knowledge.    Caught  thus,  with  his  back  against  the  wall, 
we  expected  him  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

The  enforced  waiting  was — to  me  anyway — distract- 
ing. With  the  hope  I'd  had  of  Barker  gone,  I  was  now 
looking  to  Ford.  He  must,  he  covld  exonerate  her, 
there  wasn't  the  slightest  doubt  of  it.  But  to  have  to 
wait  for  it,  to  be  cool  and  calm,  to  get  through  the  next 
few  days — I  felt  like  a  man  caught  in  the  rafters  of  a 
burning  building,  trying  to  be  patient  while  they  hacked 
him  out. 

After  the  news  from  the  hospital  the  temperature  of 
the  ofEce  fell  to  an  enforced  normal.  O'Mally  went  back 
to  his  burrow  and  Babbitts  to  his  paper  with  his  big 
story  still  in  the  air.  That  night  in  my  place,  I  meas- 
ured off  the  sitting  room  from  eight  till  twelve — five 
strides  from  the  bookcase  to  the  window,  seven  from  the 
fire  to  the  folding  doors. 

If  /  could  only  induce  her  to  speak,  if  she  herself 
would  only  clear  up  the  points  that  were  against  her, 
there  was  still  a  chance  of  getting  her  out  of  it  before 
Ford  opened  up.  That  she  had  something  to  hide,  some 
mystery  in  connection  with  her  movements  that  night, 
some  secret  understanding  with  Barker,  even  I  had  to 
admit.  But  whatever  it  was  it  would  be  better  to  reveal 
it  than  to  go  on  into  the  fierce  white  light  that  would 
break  over  the  Harland  case  within  a  week. 

189 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


In  that  midnight  pacing  I  tried  to  think  of  some  way 
I  could  force  her  to  tell — to  tell  me,  but  the  clocks 
chimed  on  and  the  fire  died  on  the  hearth  and  I  got  no- 
where. She  knew  me  so  slightly,  might  think  I  was  set 
on  by  the  office,  the  very  fact  that  I  was  what  I  was 
might  seal  her  lips  closer.  Instead  of  breaking  down 
her  reticence  I  might  increase  it,  strengthen  that  wall 
of  secretiveness  behind  which  she  seemed  to  be  taking 
refuge  like  a  hunted  creature. 

When  I  went  to  the  office  on  Friday  morning  the  chief 
asked  me  to  go  to  Buffalo  that  night,  to  look  up  some 
witnesses  in  the  Lytton  case.  It  would  take  me  all  Sat- 
urday and  I  could  get  back  by  Sunday  night  or  at  the 
latest  Monday  morning.  A  phone  message  sent  to  the 
hospital  before  I  came  in  had  drawn  the  information 
that  Tony  Ford  would  not  be  able  to  see  the  Philadel- 
phia detectives — O'Mally  and  Babbitts  posed  in  that 
role — till  Monday.  That  settled  it — better  to  be  at 
work  out  of  town  than  hanging  about  cursing  the  slow- 
ness of  the  hours. 

But  the  questions  of  the  night  before  haunted  me. 
Why,  anyway,  couldn't  I  go  to  see  her?  Wasn't  it  up 
to  me,  whether  I  succeeded  or  not,  to  make  the  effort  to 
break  through  her  silence — the  silence  that  was  liable 
to  do  her  such  deadly  damage?  I  had  to  see  her.  I 
couldn't  keep  away  from  her.     At  lunch  time  I  called 

190 


The  Black  Eagle.  Mystery 


her  up  and  asked  her  if  I  could  come.  She  said  yes  and 
named  four  that  afternoon.  On  the  stroke  I  was  in  the 
vestibule,  pushing  the  button  below  her  name,  and  with 
my  heart  thumping  against  my  ribs  like  a  steel  hammer. 

She  opened  the  door  and  as  I  followed  her  up  the 
little  hall  told  me  the  servant  had  been  sent  away  and 
her  mother  was  out.  As  on  that  former  visit  she  seated 
herself  at  the  desk,  motioning  me  to  a  chair  opposite. 
The  blinds  were  raised,  the  room  flooded  with  the  last 
warm  light  of  the  afternoon.  By  its  brightness  I  saw 
that  she  was  even  paler  and  more  worn  than  she  had 
been  that  other  time — obviously  a  woman  harassed  and 
preyed  upon  by  some  inner  trouble. 

On  the  way  up  I  had  gone  over  ways  of  approach, 
but  sitting  there  in  the  quiet  pretty  room,  so  plainly  the 
abode  of  gentlewomen,  I  couldn't  work  round  to  the  sub- 
ject. She  didn't  give  me  any  help,  seeming  to  assume 
that  I  had  dropped  in  to  pay  a  call.  That  made  it  more 
difficult.  When  a  woman  treats  you  as  if  you're  a  gen- 
tleman, actuated  by  motives  of  common  politeness,  it's 
pretty  hard  to  break  through  her  guard  and  pry  into 
her  secrets. 

She  began  to  talk  quickly  and,  it  seemed  to  me,  ner- 
vously, telling  me  how  the  owner  of  their  old  farm  on 
the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  had  offered  them  a  cottage 
there,  to  which  they  would  move  next  week.     It  was 

191 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


small  but  comfortable,  originally  occupied  by  a  labor- 
er's family  who  had  gone  away.  The  pexjple  were  very 
kind,  would  take  no  rent,  and  she  and  her  mother  could 
live  for  almost  nothing  till  she  found  work.  I  sympa- 
thized with  the  idea,  she'd  get  away  from  the  wear  and 
tear  of  the  city,  have  time  to  rest  and  recuperate  after 
her  recent  worry.  She  dropped  her  eyes  to  a  paper  on. 
the  desk  and  said: 

"Yes,  I'm  tired.  Everything  was  so  sudden  and  un- 
expected. I  once  thought  I  was  strong  enough  to  stand 
anything — but  all  this — " 

She  stopped  and  picking  up  a  pencil  began  making 
little  drawings  on  the  paper,  designs  of  squares  and  cir- 
cles. 

"It's  worn  you  out,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  weary  and 
colorless  face.  Like  the  thrust  of  a  sword  a  pang  shot 
through  me — love  of  a  man,  hidden  and  disgraced,  had 
blighted  that  once  blooming  beauty. 

She  nodded  without  looking  up : 

"It's  not  the  business  only,  there  have  been  other — 
other — anxieties." 

That  was  more  of  an  opening  than  anything  I'd  ever 
heard  her  say.  I  could  feel  the  smothering  beat  of  my 
heart  as  I  answered,  as  quietly  as  I  could  : 

"Can't  you  tell  them  to  me.?  Perhaps  I  can  help 
you." 


Ids 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


One  of  those  sudden  waves  of  color  I'd  seen  before 
passed  across  her  face.  As  if  to  hide  it  she  dropped  her 
head  lower  over  the  paper,  touching  up  the  marks  she 
was  making.    Her  voice  came  soft  and  controlled : 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Reddy — But  I  know 
you're  kind — ^I  knew  it  when  I  first  met  you  a  year  ago 
in  the  country.    No,  I  can't  tell  you." 

I  leaned  nearer  to  her.  If  I  had  a  chance  to  make 
her  speak  it  was  now  or  never. 

"Miss  Whitehall,"  I  said,  trying  to  inject  a  simple, 
casual  friendliness  into  my  voice.  '*You're  almost  alone 
in  the  world,  you've  no  one — no  man,  I  mean — to  look 
after  you  or  your  interests.  You  don't  know  how  much 
help  I  might  be  able  to  give  you." 

"In  what  way.?"  she  asked,  with  her  eyes  still  on  the 
paper. 

For  a  moment  I  was  nonplused.  I  couldn't  tell  her 
what  I  knew — I  couldn't  go  back  on  my  office.  I  was 
tied  hand  and  foot ;  all  I  could  do  with  honesty  was  to 
try  to  force  the  truth  from  her.  Like  a  fool  I  stam- 
mered out: 

"In  advice  — ^  in  —  in  —  a  larger  knowledge  of  the 
world  than  you  can  have." 

She  gave  a  slight,  bitter  smile,  and  tilting  her  head 
backward  looked  critically  at  her  drawings : 

"My  knowledge  of  the  world  is  larger  than  you  think 
193 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


— maybe  larger  than  yours.  There's  only  one  thing 
you  can  do  for  me,  but  there  is  one." 

I  leaned  nearer,  my  voice  gone  a  little  hoarse : 

"What  is  it?" 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  into  my  eyes.  Her  ex- 
pression chilled  me,  cold,  challenging,  defiant : 

"Tell  me  if  the  Whitney  Office  has  found  Johnston 
Barker  yet  ?" 

For  a  second  our  eyes  held,  and  in  that  second  I  saw 
the  defiance  die  out  of  hers  and  only  question,  a  des- 
perate question,  take  its  place. 

"No,"  I  heard  myself  say,  "they  have  not  found  him." 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  and  went  back  to  her 
play  with  the  pencil. 

I  drew  myself  to  the  edge  of  my  chair  and  laid  a  hand 
on  the  corner  of  the  desk: 

"You've  asked  me  a  question  and  I've  answered  it. 
Now  let  me  ask  one.  Why  are  you  so  interested  in  the 
movements  of  Johnston  Barker.''" 

She  stiffened,  I  could  see  her  body  grow  rigid  under 
its  thin  silk  covering.  The  hand  holding  the  pencil  be- 
gan to  tremble: 

"Wouldn't  anyone  be  interested  in  such  a  sensational 
event.''  Isn't  it  natural?  Perhaps  knowing  Mr.  Bar- 
ker personally — as  I  told  you  in  Mr.  Whitney's  office — 
I'm  more  curious  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  that's  all." 

194 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  trembling  of  her  hand  made  it  impossible  for 
her  to  continue  drawing.  She  threw  down  the  pencil 
and  locked  her  fingers  together,  outstretched  on  the  pa- 
per, a  breath,  deep  taken  and  sudden,  lifting  her  breast. 
It  was  pitiful,  her  lonely  fight.  I  was  going  to  say 
something — anything,  to  make  her  think  I  didn't  see, 
when  she  spoke  again: 

"Do  any  of  you — you  men  who  are  hunting  him 
— ever  think  that  he  may  not  be  able  to  come 
back?" 

"Able?"  I  exclaimed  excitedly,  for  now  again  I 
thought  something  was  coming.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  able?" 

I  had  said — or  looked — too  much.  With  a  smoth- 
ered sound  she  jumped  to  her  feet  and  before  I  could 
rise  or  stay  her  with  a  gesture,  brushed  past  me  and 
moved  to  the  window.  There,  for  a  moment,  she  stood 
looking  out,  her  splendid  shape,  crowned  with  its  mass 
of  black  hair,  in  silhouette  against  the  thin  white  cur- 
tains. 

"Look  here,  Miss  Whitehall,"  I  said  with  grim  reso- 
lution, "I've  got  to  say  something  to  you  that  you 
may  not  like,  may  think  is  butting  in,  but  I  can't  help 
it." 

"What?"  came  on  a  caught  breath. 

"If  you  know  anything  about  Barker — ^his  where- 
195 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


abouts,  his  inability  to  come  back — ^why  don't  you 
tell  it?     It  will  help  us  and  help  you."^ 

She  wheeled  round  like  a  flash,  all  vehement  denial. 

"/ — I?  I  didn't  mean  that  I  knew.  I  was  only  won- 
dering, guessing.  It's  just  as  I  told  Mr.  Whitney  that 
day.  And  you  seem  to  think  I'm  not  open,  am  hiding 
something.  Why  should  I  do  that.?  What  motive 
could  I  have  to  keep  secret  anything  I  might  know 
that  would  bring  Mr.  Barker  to  justice?" 

As  she  spoke  she  moved  toward  me,  bringing  up  in 
front  of  me,  her  eyes  almost  fiercely  demanding.  Mine 
fell  before  them.  It  was  no  use.  With  my  memory  of 
those  letters,  of  her  mysterious  plot  with  Barker  clear 
in  my  mind,  I  could  go  no  farther, 

I  muttered  some  sentences  of  apology,  was  sorry  if 
I'd  offended  her,  hadn't  meant  to  imply  anything,  was 
carried  away  by  my  zeal  to  find  the  absconder.  She 
seemed  mollified  and  moved  to  her  seat  by  the  desk. 
Then  suddenly,  as  if  a  spring  that  had  upheld  her  had 
snapped,  she  dropped  into  the  chair,  limp  and  pallid. 

"I'm  tired,  I'm  not  myself,"  she  faltered.  "I  don't 
seem  to  know  what  I'm  saying.     All  this — all  these 

dreadful  things — have  torn  me  to  pieces "     Her 

voice  broke  and  she  averted  her  face  but  not  before  I'd 
seen  that  her  eyes  were  shining  with  tears.  That  sight 
brought  a  passionate  exclamation  out  of  me.     I  went 

196 


TJie  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


toward  her,  my  arms  ready  to  go  out  and  enfold  her. 
But  she  waved  me  back  with  an  imploring  gesture: 

"Oh  go — I  beg  of  you,  go — I  want  peace — I  want  to 
be  alone.  Please  go — Please  don't  torment  me  any 
more.     I  can't  bear  it." 

She  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands,  shrinking  back 
from  me,  and  I  turned  and  left  her.  My  steps  as  I 
went  down  the  hall  were  the  only  sounds  in  the  place, 
but  the  silence  seemed  to  thrill  with  unloosed  emotions, 
to  hum  and  sing  with  the  vibrations  that  came  from  my 
nerves  and  my  heart  and  my  soul. 

The  big  moments  in  your  life  ought  to  come  in  beau- 
tiful places,  at  least  that's  what  Pve  always  thought. 
But  they  don't — anyway  with  me.  For  as  I  went  down 
that  dingy  staircase,  full  of  queer  smells,  dark  and 
squalid,  the  greatest  moment  I'd  ever  known  came  to 
me — I  loved  her! 

I'd  loved  her  always — I  knew  it  now.  Out  in  the 
country  those  few  first  times,  but  then  more  as  a  vision, 
something  that  wove  through  my  thoughts,  aloof  and 
unapproachable,  like  an  inspiration  and  a  dream.  And 
that  day  in  Whitney's  office  as  a  woman.  And  every 
day  since,  deeper  and  stronger,  seeing  her  beset,  realiz- 
ing her  danger,  longing  with  every  fiber  to  help  her.  It 
was  the  cause  of  that  burst  of  the  old  fury,  of  the  in- 
stinct that  kept  me  close  and  secretive,  of  this  day's 

197] 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


fruitless  attempt  to  make  her  speak.  All  the  work, 
the  growing  dread,  the  rush  of  events,  had  held  me 
from  seeing,  crowded  out  recognition  of  the  wonderful 
thing.  I  stood  in  the  half-lit,  musty  little  hall  in  a 
trance-like  ecstasy,  outside  myself,  holding  only  that 
one  thought — I  loved  her — I  loved  her — I  loved  her ! 

Presently  I  was  in  the  street,  walking  without  any 
consciousness  of  the  way,  toward  the  Park.  The  ecstasy 
was  gone,  the  present  was  back  again — the  present 
blacker  and  more  terrible  after  those  radiant  moments. 
I  don't  know  how  to  describe  that  coming  back  to  the 
hideous  reality.  Everything  was  mixed  up  in  me — 
passion,  pity,  hope,  jealousy.  There  was  a  space  when 
that  was  the  fiercest,  gripped  me  like  a  physical  pang, 
and  then  passed  into  a  hate  for  Barker,  the  man  she 
loved  who  had  left  her  to  face  it  alone.  I  think  I  must 
have  spoken  aloud — I  saw  people  looking  at  me,  and  if 
my  inner  state  was  in  any  way  indicated  on  my  outer 
envelope  I  wonder  I  wasn't  run  in  as  a  lunatic. 

In  a  quiet  bypath  in  the  Park  I  got  a  better  hold 
on  myself  and  tried  to  do  some  clear  thinking.  The 
first  thing  I  had  to  do  was  to  rule  Barker  out.  Even  if 
my  fight  was  to  give  her  to  him  I  must  fight;  that  I 
couldn't  do  till  we  heard  from  Ford.  Until  then  it  was 
wisdom  to  say  nothing,  to  keep  my  pose  of  a  disinter- 
ested  adherent   of   the   theory   of   her  innocence.      If 

198 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Ford's  story  exculpated  her  she  was  out  of  the  case 
forever.  If  it  didn't  I  couldn't  decide  what  I'd  do  till 
I  heard  where  it  placed  her. 

It  was  a  momentary  deadlock  with  nothing  for  it  but 
to  wait.  That  I  was  prepared  to  do — go  to  Buffalo, 
get  through  my  job  there  and  come  back.  But  I'd  come 
back  with  my  sword  loose  in  its  scabbard  to  do  battle 
for  my  lady. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MOLLY  TELLS  THE  STORY 

YOU  can  imagine  after  that  disappointment  in 
Philadelphia — it  seems  an  unfeeling  way  to 
speak  of  the  death  of  an  old  gentleman — how 
we  all  turned  our  eyes  and  kept  them  fixed  on  Tony 
Ford. 

Friday  night  Babbitts  told  me  the  hospital  had  re- 
ported he  couldn't  be  seen  till  Monday.  The  others 
were  in  a  fever,  he  said,  O'Mally  smoking  big  black  ci- 
gars by  the  gross  and  Jack  Reddy  gone  off  to  Buffalo, 
and  Mr.  George  that  scared  Ford  would  slip  off  some 
way  he'd  have  liked  to  put  a  cordon  of  the  National 
Guard  round  the  hospital. 

Then  came  Saturday — and  Gee !  up  everything  burst 
different  to  what  anybody  had  expected. 

It  started  with  Mr.  George.  Being  so  nervous  he 
couldn't  rest  he  called  up  the  hospital  in  the  morning 
and  got  word  that  there'd  been  a  mistake  in  the  message 
of  the  day  before  and  that  Mr.  Ford  was  well  enough 
to  see  the  Philadelphia  detectives  that  afternoon.  Be- 
fore midday  Babbitts  and  O'Mally  were  gathered  in, 

goo 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  while  I  was  waiting  on  pins  and  needles  in  Ninety- 
fifth  Street  and  Jack  Reddy  was  off  unsuspecting  in 
Buffalo,  the  two  of  them  were  planted  by  Tony  Ford's 
bedside,  hearing  the  story  that  lifted  the  Harland  case 
one  peg  higher  in  its  surprise  and  grewsomeness. 

O'Mally  and  Babbitts  had  their  plans  all  laid  be- 
forehand. They  were  two  plain-clothes  men  from 
Philadelphia,  who  had  just  come  on  a  new  lead — the 
finding  of  Sammis.  When  they'd  opened  that  up  before 
him,  they  were  going  to  pass  on  to  the  murder — take 
him  by  surprise.  If  Ford  made  the  confession  they 
hoped  to  shake  out  of  him,  the  warrant  for  his  arrest 
would  be  issued  and  the  Harland  case  come  before  the 
public  in  its  true  light. 

Babbitts  had  never  seen  Ford  and  when  he  described 
him  to  me  it  didn't  sound  like  the  same  man.  He  was 
lying  propped  up  with  pillows,  his  head  swathed  in 
bandages,  and  his  face  pale  and  haggard.  Under  the 
covers  his  long  legs  stretched  most  to  the  end  of  the 
cot,  and  his  big,  powerful  hands  were  lying  limp  on  the 
counterpane.  He  was  in  a  private  room,  in  an  inside 
wing  of  the  hospital,  very  quiet  and  retired. 

When  the  attendant  left  and  they  introduced  them- 
selves he  looked  sort  of  scowling  from  one  to  the  other. 
Both  noticed  the  same  thing — a  kind  of  uneasiness, 
as  if  his  apprehensions  were  aroused,  and  for  all  his 

201 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


broken  head  he  was  on  the  job,  not  weak  and  indifferent, 
but  wary  and  alert. 

This  wasn't  what  they  wanted  so  they  started  in 
telling  him  the  news  they  thought  would  please  him 
and  put  him  at  his  ease.  A  clue  had  been  picked  up  in 
Philadelphia  that  looked  like  the  mystery  of  his  at- 
tack was  solved. 

"In  fact,"  says  O'Mally,  "a  man's  been  run  to  earth 
there  that  we're  pretty  sure  is  the  one." 

Both  men  were  watching  him  and  both  saw  a  change 
come  over  him  that  caught  their  eyes  and  held  them. 
Instead  of  being  relieved  he  was  scared. 

"Have  you  got  the  man?"  he  said. 

O'Mally  nodded: 

"That's  what  we  have." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Party  called  Sammis.  Answers  to  the  descrip- 
tion  " 

Before  he  could  go  further  Ford  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow,  looking  downright  terrified. 

"Joseph  Sammis?"  he  said,  his  eyes  set  staring  on 
O'MaUy. 

"That's  it.  We  tracked  him  up  and  found  him.  But 
I  don't  want  to  raise  any  false  hopes.  We  were  too 
late.    When  we  got  there  he  was  dead." 

It  had  an  extraordinary  effect  upon  Ford.    He  gave 

2oa 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  gasp,  and  raised  himself  up  into  a  sitting  posture, 
his  mouth  open,  his  eyes  glued  on  O'Mally.  For  a  min- 
ute not  one  of  them  said  a  word — Ford  evidently 
too  paralyzed  at  what  he'd  heard,  and  the  others  too 
surprised  at  the  way  Ford  w.as  acting  which  was  ex- 
actly different  to  what  they'd  expected.  It  was  he 
who  spoke  first,  his  voice  gone  down  to  a  husky  mur- 
mur: 

"Deadr 

O'Mally  answered: 

''Heart  disease,  angina  pectoris.  The  doctor  down 
there  said  some  strain  or  effort  had  finished  him.  That, 
as  we  see  it,  was  the  attack  he  made  on  you." 

Then  Ford  did  the  most  surprising  thing  of  all. 
Raising  his  hands  he  clapped  both  over  his  face,  and 
with  a  big,  heaving  sob  from  the  bottom  of  his  chest, 
fell  back  on  the  pillows  and  began  to  cry. 

Babbitts  said  you  couldn't  have  believed  it  if  you 
hadn't  seen  it — ^he  and  O'Mally  looking  stumped  at  each 
other  and  between  them  that  great  ox  of  a  man,  lying 
in  the  bed  crying  like  a  baby.  Then  Himself,  being 
fearful  that  maybe  they'd  done  the  man  harm,  rose  up 
to  go  after  a  nurse,  but  O'Mally  caught  him  by  the 
coat,  whispering,  "Keep  still,  you  goat,"  then  turned 
and  said  very  pleasant  to  Ford : 

"Knocked  you  out,  old  man.    That's  natural,  nerves 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


still  weak.  Keep  it  up  till  you  feel  better.  Don't  mind 
us — we're  used  to  it." 

So  there  they  sat.  Babbitts  still  uneasy,  but  O'Mally, 
calm  and  patient,  tilting  back  in  his  chair  looking 
dreamy  out  of  the  window.  He  said  afterward  that 
he  knew  that  hysterical  fit  for  what  it  was — relief, 
and  that  was  why  he  wouldn't  let  Babbitts  call  a 
nurse. 

Presently  the  sobs  began  to  ease  off  and  Ford,  grop- 
ing under  the  pillow  for  a  handkerchief,  said,  all 
choked  up: 

"How  did  you  come  to  connect  him  with  me?" 

"By  papers  found  in  his  desk — records  of  a  real- 
estate  business  you  and  he'd  been  in  some  years  ago  at 
Syracuse." 

"That's  the  man,"  said  Ford,  between  his  hiccuppy 
catches  of  breath,  "and  he's  dead?" 

"Dead  as  Julius  Caesar."  O'Mally  leaned  forward, 
his  voice  dropping,  "You  knew  he  was  the  chap  that 
attacked  you?" 

Ford,  his  head  drooped,  his  shoulders  hunched  up 
like  an  old  woman's,  nodded : 

"Yes,  I  lied  when  I  said  he  was  a  stranger  to  me." 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  asked  Babbitts. 

It  was  just  what  you  might  know  he'd  ask.  One  of 
the  cutest  things  about  Himself  is  that  he  never  can 

204j 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


understand  why  anyone,  no  matter  what  the  provoca- 
tion, has  to  lie. 

Ford  didn't  answer  and  O'Mally,  givmg  his  chair  a 
hitch  nearer  to  the  bed,  said  kind  and  persuasive: 

''Say,  Ford,  you'd  better  tell  us  all  you  know.  We 
got  the  papers,  and  most  of  the  information.  The 
man's  dead.     Clean  it  up  and  we'll  let  it  drop." 

Without  raising  his  head  Ford  said,  low  and  sort 
of  sullen: 

''All  right — if  you  agree  to  that.  I  was  in  business 
with  him  and  I — I — didn't  play  fair — lit  out  with  some 
of  the  money."  He  turned  a  lowering  look  on  Bab- 
bitts. ^'Thafs  the  answer  to  your  question,"  then  back 
to  O'Mally,  "I  didn't  run  across  him  or  hear  of  him  in 
all  this  time  and  supposed  the  whole  thing  was  buried 
and  forgotten  till  he  came  into  my  room  Tuesday 
night.  He  was  blazing  mad,  said  he'd  been  waiting  for 
a  chance  to  even  up,  and  had  at  last  found  me.  To 
keep  him  quiet  I  said  I'd  give  him  some  money.  I  had 
some." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  O'Mally,  nodding  cheerfully,  "the 
legacy  your  uncle  left  you." 

Ford  shot  a  look  at  him,  sharp  and  quick : 

"Oh,  you  know  about  that.''" 

"Naturally.  Inquiries  have  been  made  in  aU  direc- 
tions.   Go  on." 

£05 


TJie  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"I  hadn't  much  cash  there — a  few  dollars,  but  I 
thought  I'd  hand  him  that  and  agree  to  pay  him  more 
later.  He  said  he  didn't  want  money,  that  wouldn't 
square  our  accounts,  and  as  I  went  to  the  desk  he  came 
up  behind  me  and  struck  me.     That's  all  I  know." 

"Did  he  say  how  he'd  located  you?" 

"Yes.  He'd  been  looking  for  me  ever  since  I'd 
skipped  but  couldn't  find  me.  Then  he  saw  my  name 
in  the  papers  after  the  Harland  suicide.  Some  fool 
reporter  spoke  to  me  in  the  street  that  night  and  I 
told  him  who  I  was  and  where  I  worked.  A  short  while 
after  Sammis  phoned  up  to  the  Black  Eagle  Building, 
heard  from  Miss  Whitehall  I'd  left  and  got  from  her  my 
house  address." 

"Did  he  say  what  he  was  doing  in  Philadelphia  ?" 

"He  had  some  new  job  there,  he  didn't  say  what, 
but  he  said  he  was  well  paid.  That  came  out  in  his 
blustering  about  not  wanting  my  money." 

There  was  a  pause.  Babbitts  and  O'Mally  scribbling 
in  their  note  books.  Ford  sitting  up  in  that  hunched 
position,  looking  surly  at  his  hands  lying  on  the  coun- 
terpane. So  far  every  word  he'd  said  tallied  with  what 
they  already  knew.  Babbitts  was  wondering  how 
O'Mally  was  going  to  get  round  to  the  real  business 
of  the  interview,  when  the  detective  suddenly  raised 
up  from  his  notes,  and  leaning  forward  tapped  light- 

206 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


\y  on  one  of  Ford's  hands  with  the  point  of  his  pencil. 

"Say,  Ford,  how  about  that  legacy  from  your 
uncle?" 

Ford  gave  a  start,  stiffened  up  and  looked  quick  as 
a  flash  into  the  detective's  face. 

"What  about  it  ?"  he  stammered. 

O'Mally,  his  body  bending  forward,  his  pencil  tip 
still  on  Ford's  hand,  said  with  sudden,  grim  meaning: 

^'We  know  where  it  came  from." 

For  a  second  they  eyed  each  other.  Babbitts  said 
it  looked  Hke  an  electric  current  was  passing  between 
them,  holding  them  as  still  as  if  they  were  mesmerized. 
Then  O'Mally  went  on,  very  low,  each  word  falling  slow 
and  clear  from  his  lips: 

"We  know  all  about  that  money  and  the  game  you've 
been  playing.  This  Sammis  business  isn't  what  we're 
here  for.  It's  the  other — the  Harland  matter,  the 
thing  that's  been  occupying  your  time  and  thoughts 
lately.  That  outside  job  of  yours — that  job  that  was 
finished  on  the  night  of  January  the  fifteenth."  He 
paused  and  Ford's  glance  slid  away  from  him,  his  eyes 
like  the  eyes  of  a  trapped  animal  traveling  round  the 
walls  of  the  room.  "We've  got  you.  Ford.  The  whole 
thing's  in  our  hands.  Your  only  chance  is  to  tell — tell 
everything  you  know." 

In  describing  it  to  me  Babbitts  said  that  moment 
207 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


was  one  of  the  tensest  in  the  whole  case.  Ford  was 
cornered,  you  could  see  he  knew  it  and  you  could  see 
the  consciousness  of  guilt  in  his  pallid  face  and  trem- 
bling hands.  O'Mally  was  like  a  hunter  that  has  his 
prey  at  last  in  sight,  drawn  forward  to  the  edge  of  his 
chair,  his  jaw  squared,  his  eyes  piercing  into  Ford  like 
gimlets. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  almost  whispered.  "What  was  that 
money  paid  you  for?" 

Ford  tried  to  smile,  the  ghost  of  that  cock-sure  grin 
distorting  his  face  like  a  grimace. 

*'I  guess  you've  got  the  goods  on  me,"  he  said.  "I 
know  when  I'm  beaten.  You  needn't  try  any  third 
degree.     I'U  teU." 

Babbitts  was  so  excited  he  could  hardly  breathe.  The 
Big  Story  was  his  at  last — he  was  going  to  hear  the 
murderer's  confession  from  his  own  lips.  Ford  lifted 
his  head,  and  holding  it  high  and  defiant,  looked  at 
O'Mally  and  said  slowly : 

**I  got  that  money  from  Rollings  Harland  for  re- 
porting to  him  the  affair  between  Johnston  Barker  and 
Miss  Whitehall." 

If  you'd  hit  him  in  the  head  with  a  brick  Babbitts 
said  he  couldn't  have  been  more  knocked  out.  He  had 
sense  enough  to  smother  the  exclamation  that  nearly 
burst  from  him,  but  he  did  square  round  in  his  chair 

208 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


and  look  aghast  at  O'Mallj.  That  old  bird  never  gave 
a  sign  that  he'd  got  a  blow  in  the  solar  plexus.  For  all 
anyone  could  guess  by  his  face,  it  was  just  what  he'd 
expected  to  hear. 

"You  were  in  Harland's  pay,"  he  murmured,  nodding 
his  head. 

*'I  was  in  Harland's  pay  from  the  first  of  December 
to  the  day  of  his  death.  In  that  time  he  gave  me  eight 
hundred  dollars." 

O'Mally,  slouching  comfortable  against  his  chair 
back,  drooped  his  head  toward  his  shoulder  and  said: 

"Suppose  you  tell  us  the  whole  thing,  straight  from 
the  start.    It'll  be  easier  that  way." 

"Any  way  you  want  it,"  said  Ford.  "It's  all  the 
same  to  me,  I  first  met  Harland  in  the  elevator  some 
time  in  the  end  of  November.  Seeing  me  every  day  he 
spoke  to  me  casually  and  civilly,  as  one  man  does  to 
another.  There  was  nothing  more  than  that  till  John- 
ston Barker  began  coming  to  the  Azalea  Woods 
Estates,  then,  bit  by  bit,  Harland  grew  more  friendly. 
I'll  admit  I  was  flattered,  a  chap  in  my  position  doesn't 
usually  get  more  than  a  passing  nod  from  a  man  in  his. 
As  he  warmed  up  toward  me,  feeling  his  way  with 
questions,  I  began  to  get  a  line  on  what  he  was  after — 
he  wanted  a  tab  kept  on  Barker." 

"Jealous.?"   O'Mally   suggested. 
209 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


^'Desperately  jealous.  As  soon  as  the  thing  opened 
up  before  me  I  saw  how  matters  stood.  He  was  secretly 
crazy  about  Miss  Whitehall  and  was  easy  until  Barker 
cut  in,  then  he  got  alarmed.  Barker  was  a  bigger  man 
than  he,  and  there  was  no  doubt  about  it  that  she  liked 
Barker.  When  he  realized  that  he  put  it  up  to  me 
straight.  He'd  sized  me  up  pretty  thoroughly  by  that 
time  and  knew  that  I'd — what's  the  use  of  mincing  mat- 
ters— do  his  dirty  work  for  him." 

O'Mally  inclined  his  head  as  if  he  was  too  polite  to 
contradict. 

*'He  offered  me  good  money  and  all  I  had  to  do  was 
to  watch  her  and  Barker  and  report  what  I  heard  or 
saw.  It  was  a  cinch — I  was  on  the  spot,  the  only  other 
person  in  the  office  a  fool  of  a  stenographer,  a  girl,  who 
hardly  counted." 

"What  was  the  result  of  your — er — investigations  ?" 

"That  Barker  was  in  love  with  her  too.  He  came 
often  on  a  flimsy  excuse  that  he  wanted  to  build  a 
house  in  the  tract.  She  was  friendly  at  first,  then  for 
a  while  very  cold  and  haughty — as  if  they  might  have 
had  a  quarrel.  Then  they  seemed  to  make  that  up,  and 
get  as  thick  as  thieves." 

"Did  she  seem  to  care  for  Harland?" 

"Not  exactly — anyway  not  the  way  he  did  for  her. 
She  was  always  awfully  nice  to  him — the  few  times  he 

210 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


came  into  the  office — gentle  and  sweet,  but  not  the  way 
she  was  with  Barker.  She  was  two  different  women 
to  them — with  Harland  a  sort  of  affable,  gracious  win- 
ner, but  with  Barker  a  girl  with  a  man  she's  fond  of, 
natural,  glad  to  see  him,  no  society  stunts. 

"A  little  before  Christmas  I  caught  on  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  receiving  letters  from  Barker,  and  Harland 
offered  me  extra  money  if  I'd  get  their  contents.  This 
wasn't  so  easy.  Generally  she  took  them  away  with 
her,  but  twice  she  left  them  on  her  desk.  All  I  had 
to  do  then  was  to  stay  overtime  and  when  she  was  gone, 
copy  them.  That  way  I  got  on  to  something  that 
phazed  us  both — she  and  Barker  were  up  to  some 
scheme." 

O'Mally  moved  slightly  in  his  chair. 

"Scheme?"  he  said — "What  do  you  mean  by  scheme?" 

"Something  they  were  planning  to  do.  After  Christ- 
mas every  time  he'd  come  they'd  go  into  the  private 
office  and  talk  there  so  low  you  couldn't  catch  a  word. 
And  the  letters  were  all  about  it,  but  we  couldn't  get  a 
line  on  what  it  was.  I'll  show  them  to  you  and  you'll 
see  for  yourself.  It  got  Harland  wild,  for  though 
they  weren't  exactly  love  letters,  they  showed  that  she 
and  Barker  were  close  knit  in  some  secret  enterprise." 

"Did  you  continue  this  work  till  the  day  of  the  sui- 
cide.?" 

91X 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"I  did — to  the  night — to  the  time  it  happened.  Har- 
land  was  getting  more  and  more  worked  up.  I  don't 
know  whether  it  was  the  Barker- Whitehall  business  or 
his  own  financial  worries,  but  I  could  see  he  was  holding 
the  lid  on  with  difficulty.  That  day,  January  fifteenth, 
as  you  may  remember,  he  was  in  her  office  and  had  a 
talk  with  her.  As  he  went  out  I  saw  that  he  looked 
cheered-up,  brisk  and  confident.  Of  course  I've  no 
idea  what  she  said  to  him,  but  knowing  the  state  he  was 
in,  I'll  swear  it  was  something  that  gave  him  hope. 
Yet  a  few  hours  after  that  he  killed  himself. 

^'Seeing  him  so  heartened  up  and  being  curious  my- 
self, I  decided  to  stay  that  evening  and  do  a  little  quiet 
snooping  among  her  papers.  But  she  nearly  blocked 
that  game.  She  was  in  the  habit  of  going  between  half- 
past  five  and  six,  leaving  me  to  close  up.  That  night 
she  didn't  do  it,  but  hung  about  in  the  office,  and  after 
watching  her  for  a  few  minutes  I  saw  that  she  was  on 
the  jump — amoving  about,  going  from  one  desk  to  the 
other,  glancing  at  the  clock.  Her  manner  made  me 
certain  that  something  was  up — it  was  possible  it  had 
to  do  with  the  scheme  she  and  Barker  were  hatching. 
I  got  the  idea  that  I'd  go  and  come  back  after  a  while, 
on  the  chance  of  stumbling  on  something  that  would 
be  useful  to  my  employer.  I  left  her  there  and  after 
loafing  round  for  about  half  an  hour  returned.    The 

£12 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


office  was  dark  and  she'd  gone.  I  lit  up  and  looked 
over  her  desk  in  the  Exhibit  Room  and  a  table  in  my 
room  where  she  kept  some  papers,  but  found  nothing. 
Then  I  thought  I'd  take  a  look  into  the  private  office 
but  that  door  was  locked." 

"Ah,  locked,"  said  O'Mally,  calm  as  a  summer  sea. 
*'Was  that  her  custom.'^" 

*'Not  as  far  as  I  knew.  I'd  never  found  it  locked 
before.  It  gave  me  an  uneasy  feeling  for  I  thought  she 
might  have  suspected  what  I  was  doing  and  turned  tHe 
key  against  any  invasion  of  her  particular  sanctum. 
She  was  no  fool  and  might  have  caught  on.  So  I  fixed 
up  the  papers  as  I  found  them  and  left  the  office.  You 
know  what  time  that  was,  or  you  do  if  you  read  of  the 
Harland  suicide.  I've  always  supposed  the  poor  chap 
was  up  that  side  corridor  as  I  stood  there  waiting  for 
the  car." 

Babbitts  bent  over  his  notebook  scribbling — he  had 
to  hide  his  face.  He  told  me  he  thought  the  expression 
on  it  of  stunned,  crestfallen  blankness  would  have  given 
him  away  to  an  idiot.  Waiting  with  their  ears  stretched 
to  hear  a  confession  of  murder — and  this  was  what  they 
got!  And  the  man  wasn't  lying.  Every  word  he'd 
said  matched  with  the  facts  we'd  been  worming  and 
digging  to  find.  He  couldn't  possibly  have  known 
murder  had  been  discovered — ^he  hadn't  any  suspicion 

^13 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  murder  had  been  committed.  The  great  revelation, 
that  was  to  have  broken  on  the  public  with  an  explosion 
like  a  dynamite  bomb,  was  that  Tony  Ford  was  Har- 
land's  paid  spy. 

"Well,"  he  said,  looking  at  O'Mally,  "what  have  you 
got  to  say?  Go  ahead  with  it  if  it'll  give  you  any  sat- 
isfaction. Only  you  needn't  waste  your  breath.  I 
know,  without  being  told,  that  it's  a  rotten,  dirty  busi- 
ness." 

O'Mally,  his  face  as  red  as  the  harvest  moon,  pulled 
at  his  mustache  looking  thoughtful.  But,  sore  as  he 
must  have  been — you'd  have  to  know  O'MaUy  to  realize 
what  his  disappointment  was — he  answered  cool  and 
easy : 

"I  ain't  got  anything  to  say.  It's  not  my  job  to 
train  the  young.  You've  told  me  what  I  wanted  to 
know — that's  all  I'm  here  for." 

Ford  turned  to  Babbitts  and  asked  him  to  get  some 
letters  off  the  table  and  then  went  on  to  O'Mally: 

"How  did  you  come  to  find  it  out?" 

Babbitts,  gathering  up  the  letters,  cocked  his  head 
to  listen,  wondering  how  O'Mally  was  going  to  get  out 
of  it.     But  you  couldn't  phaze  that  veteran. 

**Several  ways — you  see  what  we're  after  is  Johnston 
Barker.  It's  the  Copper  Pool  that  owns  us,  and  nosing 
round  in  our  quiet  little  way  we  got  on  to  the  Barker- 

214 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Whitehall  affair  and  from  that  followed  the  scent  to 
that  legacy  of  yours.  We  didn't  altogether  believe  in 
that  uncle  up-state — thought  maybe  he  was  Johnston 
Barker  in  private  life,  and  that  you  might  know  some- 
thing," he  gave  a  lazy,  good-humored  laugh.  "Got 
fooled  all  round.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  that  the 
way  we  happened  on  Sammis  was  pure  accident. 
Thought  he  was  Barker  and  had  him  shadowed.  He 
looked  like  enough  to  him  to  have  been  his  brother." 

"That's  so,"  said  Ford,  as  Babbitts  handed  him  the 
letters,  "especially  with  his  hat  on.  I  noticed  it  my- 
self." He  selected  two  papers  from  the  bunch  and 
handed  them  to  O'Mally.  "There — those  are  the  let- 
ters I  spoke  of.  This  one,"  he  flicked  it  across  the 
counterpane,  "is  just  a  note  from  Harland  making  a 
date.    I  don't  know  how  I  happened  to  keep  it." 

They  were  the  three  letters  Babbitts  had  taken  after 
the  attack,  copies  of  which  at  that  moment  were  lying 
in  O'Mally's  pocket. 

It  was  not  till  they  were  out  on  the  hospital  steps 
that  they  dared  to  speak.  O'Mally's  face  was  a  study, 
his  mouth  drooped  down  to  his  chin  and  his  eyes  dismal 
and  despairing  like  he'd  come  from  a  tragedy. 

"Well!"  he  said,  "what  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"Zero!" 

"Not  a  thing  to  do  with  it,  hasn't  a  suspicion  of  it, 
215 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


no  more  involved  in  it  than  that  sparrow  there,"  he 
pointed  to  a  sparrow  that  had  lit  on  the  step  near-by. 
"I've  had  setbacks  in  my  profession  before — but  this !" 
He  stopped,  stuck  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  stared 
blankly  at  the  sparrow. 

"Well,  if  it  lets  him  out,"  said  Babbitts,  "it  tightens 
the  cords  round  the  other  two." 

"Um,"  agreed  O'Mally,  still  gazing  stonily  at  the 
sparrow,  "that's  what  keeps  your  spirits  up." 

"With  him  eliminated  the  whole  thing  concentrates 
on  her  and  Barker." 

"It  does,  my  son."  O'Mally  roused  up  and  came  out 
of  his  depression.  "Instead  of  a  brain  and  a  pair  of 
hands  as  we've  called  it,  it  was  a  brain  and  one  hand — 
the  smart  hand,  the  right.     That  was  the  woman." 

He  turned  and  began  to  descend  the  steps,  taking 
Babbitts  by  the  arm  to  draw  him  closer  and  speaking 
low: 

"Do  you  see  how  it  went.?  They  were  in  the  private 
office  when  Ford  came  back — she  and  Barker  and  the 
dead  man.  When  they  heard  him  come  they  switched 
off  the  light  and  locked  the  door — and.  Great  Scott, 
can  you  imagine  how  they  felt !  Shut  in  there  in  the  dark 
with  their  victim,  not  knowing  who  Ford  could  be  or 
what  he  was  doing,  listening  to  him  rummaging  round, 
his  steps  coming  nearer,  his  hand  on  the  doorknob !    I'm 

216 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


too  familiar  with  murder  to  see  any  terrors  in  it — but 
that  situation!  I've  never  known  the  beat  of  it  in  all 
my  experience.  Then  when  Ford  goes — on  his  very 
heels — over  and  out  with  the  thing  they'd  killed.  And 
both  of  them  back  there  again,  or  maybe  stealing  to 
the  front  windows  and  taking  a  look  down  at  the  crowd 
below." 

They  walked  up  the  street  arm  in  arm,  talking  in 
hushed  voices.  As  he  looked  at  the  faces  of  the  people 
that  passed  the  thought  came  to  Babbitts  that  in  a 
short  time,  maybe  a  few  days,  they'd  be  reading  in  the 
papers  of  the  awful  crime  not  one  of  them  now  had  a 
suspicion  of. 


CHAPTER  XV 
MOLLY  TELLS  THE   STORY 

I  HEARD  all  this  late  that  night  from  Babbitts. 
But  there  was  more  to  it  than  I've  told  in  the  last 
chapter,  for  after  they  left  the  hospital  O'Mally 
and  Babbitts  went  to  the  Whitney  office  and  had  a 
seance  with  the  old  man  and  Mr.  George. 

Though  Ford  had  disappointed  them  his  story  had 
made  the  way  clear  for  a  decisive  move.  This  was 
decided  upon  then  and  there.  On  Monday  morning 
they  would  ask  Miss  Whitehall  to  come  to  Whitney  & 
Whitney's  and  subject  her  to  a  real  examination.  If 
she  maintained  her  pose  of  ignorance  they  would  sud- 
denly face  her  with  their  complete  information.  They 
felt  tolerably  certain  this  would  be  too  much  for  her, 
secure  in  her  belief  that  no  murder  had  been  suspected. 
Surprise  and  terror  would  seize  her,  even  a  hardened 
criminal,  placed  unexpectedly  in  such  a  position,  was 
liable  to  break  down. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  I'll  not  forget  it  in  a 
hurry.  Many  a  high  pressure  day  I've  had  in  my 
twenty-five  years  but  none  that  had  anything  over  that 

218 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


one.  It  was  gray  and  overcast,  clouds  low  down  over 
the  roofs  which  stretched  away  in  a  gray  huddle  of  flat 
tops  and  slanting  mansards  and  chimneys  and  clothes- 
lines. Babbitts  spent  the  morning  on  the  davenport 
looking  like  he  was  in  a  boat  floating  through  a  sea  of 
newspapers.  I  couldn't  settle  down  to  anything,  think- 
ing of  what  was  going  to  happen  the  next  morning, 
thinking  of  that  girl,  that  beautiful  girl,  with  her  soul 
stained  with  crime,  and  wondering  if  she  could  feel  the 
shadow  that  was  falling  across  her. 

After  lunch  Himself  went  out  saying  he'd  take  a 
shot  at  finding  Freddy  Jaspar  and  going  with  him  up  to 
Yonkers  where  there'd  been  some  anarchist  row.  He 
was  restless  too.  If  things  turned  out  right  he'd  get 
his  Big  Story  at  last — and  what  a  story  it  would  be ! — ' 
he'd  get  a  raise  for  certain,  and  as  he  kissed  me  good- 
bye he  said  he'd  give  me  the  two  glass  lamps  and  a  new 
set  of  furs,  anything  I  wanted  short  of  sable  or  ermine. 

In  the  afternoon  lola  dropped  in  all  dolled  up  and 
decked  with  a  permanent  smile,  for  she'd  landed  her 
new  job  and  liked  it  fine.  As  she  prattled  away  she 
let  drop  something  that  caught  my  ear,  and  lucky  it 
was  as  you'll  see  presently.  On  her  way  over  she'd  met 
Delia,  the  Whitehalls'  maid,  who  told  her  the  ladies 
were  going  to  move  back  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates 
where  someone  had  given  them  a  cottage.     Delia  had 

219 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


just  been  to  see  them  and  found  that  Mrs.  Whitehall 
had  already  gone,  and  Miss  Whitehall  was  packing  up 
to  follow  on  Monday  afternoon.  lola  thought  it  was 
nice  they'd  got  the  cottage  but  didn't  I  think  Miss 
Whitehall  would  be  afraid  of  the  dullness  of  the  country 
after  living  in  town?  I  said  you  never  could  tell.  What 
I  thought  was  that  if  there  was  anything  for  Miss 
Whitehall  to  be  afraid  of  it  wasn't  dullness. 

At  six  lola  left,  having  a  date  for  supper,  and  a 
little  after  that  I  had  a  call  from  Babbitts,  saying  he 
and  Freddy  Jaspar  had  found  the  anarchist  business 
more  important  than  they  expected  and  he  wouldn't 
be  home  till  all  hours. 

Isabella  doesn't  come  on  Sunday  so  I  got  my  own 
supper  and  then  sat  down  in  the  parlor  and  tried  to 
read  the  papers.  But  I  couldn't  put  my  mind  on  them. 
In  a  few  days,  perhaps  as  soon  as  Tuesday,  the  Dis- 
patch  would  have  the  Harland  murder  on  the  front 
page.  I  could  see  the  headlines — the  copy  reader  could 
spread  himself — and  I  tried  to  work  out  how  Babbitts 
would  write  it,  where  he'd  begin — with  the  crime  itself 
or  with  all  the  story  that  came  before  it. 

It  was  near  eleven  and  me  thinking  of  bed  when  there 
was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  That's  pretty  late  for  callers, 
even  in  a  newspaper  man's  flat,  and  I  jumped  up  and 
ran  into  the  hall.    After  I'd  jammed  the  push  button,  I 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


opened  the  door,  spying  out  for  the  head  coming  up 
the  stairs.  It  came — a  derby  hat  and  a  pair  of  broad 
shoulders,  and  then  Jack  Reddy's  face,  raised  to  mine, 
grave  and  frowning. 

"Hello,  Molly,"  he  said.  "It's  late,  but  I  couldn't 
find  any  of  the  others  so  I  came  to  you." 

If  he  hadn't  seen  anyone  he  didn't  know  what  had 
transpired.  The  thought  made  me  bubble  up  with 
eagerness  to  tell  him  the  new  developments.  That  was 
the  reason,  I  guess,  I  didn't  notice  how  serious  he  was, 
not  a  smile  of  greeting,  not  a  handshake.  He  didn't 
even  take  off  his  coat,  but  throwing  his  hat  on  one 
of  the  hallpegs,  said: 

"I've  only  just  got  in  from  Buffalo.  I  phoned  to 
the  Whitney  house  from  the  Grand  Central,  but  they're 
both  out  of  town,  not  to  be  back  till  tomorrow  morning, 
and  O'Mally's  away  too.     Do  you  know  how  Ford  is  ?" 

"You  bet  I  do.  He's  sat  up,  taken  nourishment  and 
talked  r 

"Talked?    Have  they  seen  him?" 

"They  have."  I  turned  away  and  moved  up  the  hall. 
"Come  right  in  and  I'll  tell  you." 

I  went  into  the  dining-room  where  the  drop  light 
hung  bright  over  the  table,  and  was  going  on  to  the 
parlor  when  I  heard  his  voice,  loud  and  commanding, 
behind  me :  ' 

221 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"What's  he  said?" 

I  whisked  round  and  there  he  was  standing  by  the 
table,  his  eyes  fixed  hard  and  almost  fierce  on  me. 

*'Won't  you  come  into  my  parlor,  said  the  spider  to 
the  fly,"  I  said  laughing,  just  to  tease  him.  He  an- 
swered without  the  ghost  of  a  smile: 

"No.     Go  on  quick.    What  did  Ford  say?" 

"All  right."  I  dropped  down  into  Babbitts'  chair 
and  motioned  him  to  mine.  "Sit  down  there.  It's  a 
long  story  and  I  can't  tell  it  to  you  if  you  stand  in 
front  of  me  like  a  patience  on  a  monument." 

He  took  the  chair  and  putting  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
raised  his  hands,  clasped  together,  and  leaned  his  mouth 
on  them.  The  light  fell  full  on  his  face  and  over  those 
clasped  hands  his  eyes  stared  at  me  so  fixed  and 
steady  they  looked  the  eyes  of  an  image.  I  don't  think 
while  I  told  him  he  ever  batted  a  lid  and  I  know  he 
never  said  a  word. 

"So  you  see,"  I  said,  when  I  was  through,  "Ford's 
as  much  out  of  it  as  you  are." 

Without  moving  his  hands  he  asked: 

"Whatdo  they  think.?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  suppose  they  think?  Instead  of 
there  being  three  of  them  in  it  there  were  two." 

"They  think  she  and  Barker  did  it?" 

**0f  course.     They've  worked  it  out  this  way" — I 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


leaned  over  the  table,  my  voice  low,  giving  him  the  de- 
tails of  their  new  theory.  As  I  told  it  there  was  some- 
thing terrible  in  those  eyes.  All  the  kindness  went  out 
of  them  and  a  fire  came  in  its  place  till  they  looked  like 
crystals  with  a  flame  behind  them. 

When  I  finished  he  spoke  and  this  time  his  voice 
sounded  different,  hoarse  and  muffled: 

"Have  they  made  any  plan.''  Decided  on  their  next 
step.?" 

"They've  got  it  all  arranged,"  and  I  went  on  about 
the  interview  that  was  planned  for  the  next  morning. 
"With  her  thinking  herself  safe  the  way  she  does, 
they're  sure  they  can  give  her  such  a  jolt  she'll  lose 
her  nerve  and  tell." 

He  gave  an  exclamation,  not  words,  just  a  choked, 
fierce  sound,  and  dropping  his  hands  on  the  table,  burst 
out  like  a  volcano: 

"The  dogs !  The  devils  !  Dragging  her  down  there 
to  terrify  a  lie  out  of  her!" 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  sending  the  chair  crashing 
down  on  the  floor.  I  fell  back  where  I  sat  paralyzed, 
not  only  by  his  words,  but  at  the  sight  of  him. 

I  think  I've  spoken  of  the  fact  that  he  had  a  violent 
temper  and  he's  told  me  himself  that  he's  conquered  it. 
But  now  for  the  first  time  I  saw  it  and  believe  me  it  was 
far  from  dead.    I  would  hardly  have  known  him.    His 

223 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


face  was  savage,  his  eyes  blazing,  and  the  words  came 
from  him  as  if  thej  were  shot  out  on  the  breaths  that 
broke  in  great  heaving  gasps  from  his  lungs. 

"Haven't  you,"  he  said,  "a  woman,  any  heart  in  you? 
Are  you,  that  I've  always  thought  all  kindness  and  gen- 
erosity, willing  to  hound  an  innocent  girl  to  her  ruin?" 

He  grabbed  the  back  of  a  chair  near  him  and  leaned 
over  it  glaring  at  me,  shaking,  gasping,  and  the  color 
of  ashes. 

"But— but,"  I  faltered,  "she's  done  it." 

"She  hasn't,"  he  shouted.  "You're  all  fools,  imbe- 
ciles, mad.     It's  a  lie — an  infamous,  brutal  lie!" 

He  dropped  the  chair  and  turned  away,  beginning  to 
pace  up  and  down,  his  hands  clenched,  raging  to  him- 
self. The  room  was  full  of  the  sound  of  his  breathing, 
as  if  some  great  throbbing  piece  of  machinery  was  in- 
side him. 

And  I — there  in  my  seat,  fallen  limp  against  the 
back — saw  it  all.  What  a  fool  I'd  been — ^what  an  idiot! 
He  with  his  empty  heart  and  that  beautiful  girl — the 
girl  that  any  man  might  have  loved  and  how  much  more 
Jack  Reddy,  knowing  her  poor  and  lonesome  and  be- 
lieving her  innocent  and  persecuted.  I  felt  as  if  the 
skies  had  fallen  on  me.  My  hero — that  I'd  never  found 
a  woman  good  enough  for — in  love  with  a  murderess! 

He  stopped  in  his  pacing  and  tried  to  get  a  grip  on 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


himself,  tried  to  speak  quietly  with  his  voice  gone  to  a 
husky  murmur : 

^'Tomorrow  do  you  say?  Tomorrow  they're  going 
to  do  this  damnable  thing?" 

"Tomorrow  at  ten  in  Mr.  Whitney's  office,"  I  an- 
swered, weak  and  trembling. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  on  the  ground,  his 
brows  drawn  low  over  his  eyes,  the  bones  of  his  jaw 
showing  set  under  the  flesh.  A  deadly  fear  seized  me — 
a  fear  that  followed  on  a  flash  of  understanding.  I 
got  up — I  guess  as  white  as  he  was — and  went  over  to 
him. 

"Jack,"  I  said.  "You  can't  do  anything.  Every- 
thing's against  her.  There's  not  a  point  that  doesn't 
show  she's  guilty." 

He  gave  me  a  look  from  under  his  eyebrows  like  the 
thrust  of  a  sword. 

"Don't  say  that  to  me  again,  Molly,"  he  almost  whis- 
pered, "or  I'll  forget  the  debt  I  owe  you  and  the  aff^ec- 
tion  I've  felt  for  you  since  the  day  we  swore  to  be 
friends." 

"What  can  you  do?"  I  cried,  fairly  distracted. 
"They've  got  the  evidence.    It's  there " 

I  tried  to  put  my  hand  on  his  arm  but  he  shook  it 
off^  and  walked  toward  the  door.  I  followed  him  and 
during  those  few  short  steps  from  the  dining-room  to 

^25 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  hall,  it  came  to  me  as  clear  as  if  he'd  said  it  that 
he  was  going  to  Carol  Whitehall  to  help  her  run  away. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  said,  standing  in  the 
doorway  as  he  pulled  his  hat  off  the  peg  and  turned 
toward  the  hall  door. 

"That's  my  affair,"  he  threw  back  over  his  shoulder. 

He  had  his  hand  on  the  knob  when  a  thought — an 
inspiration  flashed  on  me.  I  don't  know  where  it  came 
from,  but  when  you're  fond  of  a  person  and  see  them 
headed  for  a  precipice,  I  believe  you  get  some  sort  of 
wireless  communication  from  Heaven  or  some  place  of 
that  order. 

"Miss  Whitehall's  not  in  town  now,"  I  said. 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  back  at  me : 

"Where  is  she?" 

"They've  gone  back  to  New  Jersey.  Some  people 
loaned  them  a  cottage  in  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates." 

"I  knew  that — but  they're  not  there  yet?" 

"Yes.  They  went  yesterday,  sooner  than  they  ex- 
pected." 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  at  the  floor,  then 
glanced  back  at  me  and  said : 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me  that.     Good  night." 

The  door  opened,  banged  shut  and  I  was  alone. 

I  wonder  if  anyone  reading  this  story  can  imagine 
what  I  felt.     It  was  awful,  so  awful  that  now,  here, 

S^6 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


writing  it  down  peaceful  and  happy,  I  can  feel  the 
sinking  at  my  heart  and  the  sick  sensation  like  I  could 
never  eat  food  again.  And  laugh?  It  was  an  art  I'd 
lost  and  never  in  this  world  would  get  back. 

It  was  not  only  that  he  loved  her — that  woman,  that 
vampire,  who  could  sin  at  the  word  of  an  old  man — ^but 
it  was  the  thought,  the  certainty,  that  he  was  ready  to 
betray  his  trust,  go  back  on  his  partners,  be  a  traitor 
to  his  office.  All  the  work  they'd  done,  all  the  hopes 
they'd  built  up,  all  their  efforts  for  success,  he  was 
going  to  destroy.  It  was  disgrace  for  him,  he'd  never 
get  over  it,  he'd  be  an  outcast.  As  long  as  he  lived 
he'd  be  pointed  at  as  the  man  who  gave  his  honor  for 
the  love  of  a  wicked  woman. 

That  was  the  first  of  my  thoughts  and  the  second 
was  that  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him  do  it.  There  was 
just  one  way  of  preventing  it,  and  honest  to  God — 
think  as  badly  of  me  as  you  like,  I  can't  help  it — when 
I  got  what  that  way  was  I  was  so  relieved  I  didn't 
care  whether  I  was  a  traitor  or  not.  All  that  mattered 
then  was  if  there'd  got  to  be  one — and  as  far  as  I 
could  see  there  had  to — it  was  better  for  it  to  be  Molly 
Babbitts,  who  didn't  amount  to  much  in  the  world,  than 
Jack  Reddy,  who  was  a  big  man  and  was  going  to  be 
a  bigger. 

As  I  put  on  my  coat  and  hat  I  heard  the  clock  strike 
227 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


half-past  eleven.  There  were  no  trains  out  to  the 
Azalea  Woods  Estates  before  seven  the  next  morning. 
Even  if  he  took  his  own  auto,  which  I  guessed  he'd  do, 
it  would  take  him  the  best  part  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
to  get  there,  and  long  before  that  she'd  have  had  her 
warning  from  me. 

Yes — that's  what  I  was  going  to  do — go  to  her  and 
tell  her  before  he  could.  Dishonest?  Well,  I  guess  yes ! 
I  know  what's  straight  from  what's  crooked  as  well  as 
most.  But  it  seemed  to  me  the  future  of  a  man,  that 
man — was  worth  more  than  my  pledged  word,  or  the 
glory  of  Whitney  &  Whitney,  or  Babbitts'  scoop.  That 
was  the  crudest  of  all — my  own  dear  beloved  Soapy — • 
to  go  back  on  him  too !  Gosh ! — going  over  in  the  taxi 
through  the  dark  still  streets,  how  I  felt !  But  it  didn't 
matter.  If  I  died  when  I  was  through  I'd  got  to  do  it. 
Maybe  you  never  experienced  those  sensations,  maybe 
you  can't  understand.  But,  take  it  from  me,  there  are 
people  who'd  break  all  the  commandments  and  all  the 
laws  to  save  their  friends  and,  bad  or  good,  I'm  one  of 
them. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MOLLY  TELLS   THE   STORY 

AS  the  taxi  rolled  up  to  her  corner  I  saw  that 
the  windows  of  her  floor  were  bright.  She  was 
'  still  up,  which  would  make  things  easier — • 
much  better  than  having  to  wake  her  from  her  sleep. 
In  that  sort  of  apartment  they  lock  the  outer  doors  at 
half-past  ten  and  to  get  at  the  bells  you  have  to  wake 
the  janitor,  which  I  didn't  want  to  do,  as  no  one  must 
know  I'd  been  there. '  So  before  I  rang  the  outside  bell 
that  connects  with  his  lair  in  the  basement,  I  tried  the 
door,  hoping  some  late  comer  had  left  it  on  the  jar 
as  they  sometimes  do.  It  opened — an  immense  piece 
of  luck — which  made  me  feel  that  fate  was  on  my  side 
and  braced  me  like  a  tonic. 

In  the  vestibule  I  pressed  the  button  under  her  letter 
box  and  in  a  minute  came  the  click,  click  of  the  inner 
latch  and  I  entered.  As  I  ascended  the  stairs  I  heard 
the  door  on  the  landing  above  softly  open  and  looking 
up  I  saw  a  bright  light  illumine  the  dimness  and  then, 
through  the  balustrade,  her  figure  standing  on  the 
threshold. 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


She  must  have  been  surprised  for  the  person  who 
mounted  into  her  sight — a  girl  in  a  dark  coat  and  hat — - 
was  someone  she'd  never  seen  before.  She  pushed  the 
door  wider,  as  if  to  let  more  light  on  me,  looking  puz- 
zled at  my  face.  The  one  electric  bulb  was  just  above 
her  on  the  wall  and  its  sickly  gleam  fell  over  her, 
tall  and  straight  in  a  purple  silk  kimono.  Her  black 
hair  curling  back  from  her  forehead  stood  out  like  a 
frame,  and  her  neck,  between  the  folds  of  the  kimono, 
was  as  smooth  and  white  as  cream.  The  sight  of  her 
instead  of  weakening  me  gave  me  strength,  for  in  that 
sort  of  careless  rig,  tired  and  pale,  she  was  still  hand- 
some enough  to  make  a  fool  of  any  man. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me?^^  she  said,  "Miss  White- 
hall?" 

"I  do,"  I  answered.  "I  want  to  see  you  on  a  matter 
of  importance.    It  can't  wait." 

Without  another  word  she  drew  back  from  the  door- 
way and  let  me  come  in. 

'*Go  in  there,"  she  said,  pointing  up  the  hall  to  the 
curtained  entrance  of  the  dining-room,  and  I  went  as 
she  pointed. 

The  room  was  brightly  lit,  as  was  the  parlor  beyond, 
and  on  every  side  were  the  signs  of  moving — curtains 
piled  below  the  windows,  furniture  in  white  covers, 
straw  and  bits  of  paper  on  the  floor.    Two  trunks  were 

230 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


standing  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor  and  on  the  chairs 
about  were  her  clothes,  all  tumbled  and  mixed  up,  boots 
in  one  place,  hats  in  another,  lingerie  heaped  on  the 
table.  There  was  enough  packing  to  keep  her  busy  till 
morning,  and  I  thought  to  myself  that  was  what  she 
intended  to  do — finish  it  up  tonight  and  the  next  day 
make  her  move. 

All  this  took  only  a  minute  to  see  and  I  was  stand- 
ing by  the  dining-table,  clutching  tight  on  my  mufF  to 
hide  the  trembling  of  my  hands,  when  she  came  in. 
In  the  brighter  light  I  could  see  that  she  looked 
worn  and  weary,  all  her  color  gone  except  for  the 
red  of  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  sunken  and  dark  under- 
neath. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  she  said,  as  the  cur- 
tain fell  behind  her. 

Her  manner  was  abrupt  and  straight  from  the  shoul- 
der like  a  person's  who's  got  past  little  pleasantnesses 
and  politeness.  The  glance  she  fixed  on  me  was  steady 
and  clear,  but  there  was  a  sort  of  waiting  expectation 
in  it  like  she  was  ready  for  anything  and  braced  to 
meet  it. 

"I  came,"  I  said,  choosing  my  words  as  careful  as  I 
could,  "to  tell  you  of — of — something  that's  going  to 
happen — to  warn  you." 

She  gave  a  start  and  her  face  changed,  as  if  a  spring 
^31 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


inside  her  had  snapped  and  sort  of  focussed  her  whole 

being  into  a  still,  breathless  listening. 
"Warn  me,"  she  repeated.     *'0f  what.?" 
"Miss  Whitehall,"  I  said,  clearing  mj  throat,  for  it 

was  dry,  "I'm  a  person  you  don't  know,  but  /  know  you. 

I've  been  employed  by  people  here  in  New  York  who've 

been  watching  you  for  the  past  few  weeks.     They've 

got  the  evidence  they  want — I've  been  helping  them — 

and  they're  ready  to  act." 

As  I  had  spoken  she  had  never  taken  her  eyes  oiF  me. 

Big  and  black  and  unwinking  they  stared  and   as  I 

stared  back  I  could  see  it  wasn't  surprise  or  fear  they 

showed  but  a  concentrated  attention. 

"What  do  you  mean — act  in  what  way.'"' 

"Get  you  to  their  office  tomorrow  and  question  you 

about  the  Harland  case  and  make  you  confess." 

She  was  as  still  as  a  statue.    You'd  have  thought  she 

was  turned  to  stone,  but  for  the  moving  up  and  down 

of  her  chest. 

"What  am  I  to  confess .^^     What  have  I  done.?" 
My  hands  gripped  together  in  my  muff  and  my  voice 

went  down  to  my  boots  for  I  couldn't  say  it  aloud. 
"Been  a  party  to  the  murder  of  Rollings  Harland." 
When  I  said  it  I  had  an  expectation  that  she'd  say 

something,   deny  it  in  some   violent  way  that   would 

make  me  think  she  was  innocent.     Maybe  Jack  Reddy 

232 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


had  influenced  me,  but  I  wanted  it,  I  looked  for  it,  I 
hoped  for  it — and  I  was  disappointed.  If  it  had  been 
a  shock  to  her,  if  she  hadnH  known  there'd  been  a  mur- 
der, she  would  never  have  behaved  as  she  did.  For  she 
said  not  a  word,  standing  stock  still,  her  face  chalk 
white,  even  the  red  fading  from  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  wall  opposite,  like  the  eyes  of  a  sleep- 
walker. 

"The  murder  of  Hollings  Harland,"  she  whispered, 
and  it  was  more  as  if  she  was  speaking  to  herself  than 
to  me. 

"Yes,"  I  went  on.  "They've  discovered  it — a  group 
of  us  have  been  working  in  secret,  following  the  clues 
and  gathering  the  evidence.  Now  we've  got  it  all  ready 
and  tomorrow  they  expect  to  arrest  you." 

She  suddenly  sank  down  into  a  chair  by  the  table, 
her  hands  braced  against  its  edge,  her  eyes  riveted  in 
that  strange,  mesmerized  stare  on  the  fern  plant  in 
front  of  her. 

"When  did  they  discover  it?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Not  long  after  it  happened — but  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter. They've  got  everything  in  their  hands.  Even  if 
you  insist  that  you're  innocent  they've  got  enough  to 
arrest  you  on.  You've  been  under  surveillance  all  along 
— they've  been  shadowing  you.  They  followed  you  that 
time  you  tried  to  go  to  Toronto." 

233 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


'*I  knew  that,"  she  said  in  the  same  low  voice  as  if 
she  was  talking  to  herself. 

"They  know  how  you  came  out  of  the  building  that 
night — not  by  the  elevator  as  you  said, but  by  the  stairs, 
and  how  you  didn't  get  home  till  nearly  eight.  They 
know  about  you  and  Barker." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  said  quickly : 

^'What  do  they  know  about  me  and  Barker.?" 

"That  he  was  in  love  with  you  and  you  with  him." 

"Oh,  that!"  Her  tone  was  indifferent  as  if  the  point 
was  a  matter  of  no  consequence. 

"They  know  how  the  murder  was  done.  How  you 
and  Barker  did  it." 

"Barker  and  I "  She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  then 

suddenly  leaning  across  the  table,  looked  into  my  face 
and  said,  "Tell  me  how  we  did  it.  Let  me  see  what  they 
know." 

I  took  the  chair  opposite  and  told  her  the  whole  plot 
and  how  we'd  worked  it  out.  While  I  was  doing  it  she 
never  said  a  word,  but  sat  with  her  profile  toward  me 
and  her  eyes  in  that  blank,  motionless  stare  on  the  fern 
plant. 

When  I  had  finished  there  was  a  pause,  then  sud- 
denly she  drew  a  deep  breath,  turned  toward  me  and 
said: 

"What  brought  you  here  to  me  tonight  ?^' 


'When  did  they  discover  it?'  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


It  came  so  unexpectedly  I  had  no  answer  ready. 
What  I'd  looked  for  was  a  scene,  terror,  maybe  hys- 
terics and  her  breaking  away  as  fast  as  she  could  put 
on  her  hat.  Seeing  me  stupidly  dumb  she  rose  out  of 
her  chair,  and  moved  away  for  a  few  steps,  then  stopped 
and  seemed  again  to  fall  into  that  trance  of  thinking. 
It  was  like  everything  else  in  this  nightmare — different 
to  what  I'd  looked  for,  and  a  sickening  thought  came 
to  me  that  maybe  she  was  ready  to  throw  up  the  sponge 
and  go  down  and  confess.  And  then — for  all  I  knew — 
Jack  Reddy  might  persuade  her  to  marry  him  and  go 
to  prison  with  her.  How  can  you  be  sure  what  a  man 
crazy  with  love  will  do?  If  she  got  a  life  sentence  he'd 
probably  live  at  the  gates  of  Sing  Sing  for  the  rest  of 
his  days.  I  was  desperate  and  went  round  the  table 
after  her. 

"Say,"  I  implored.     "What  are  you  going  to  do-f*" 

'*I'm  thinking,"  she  muttered. 

"For  God's  sake  don't  thinJc,^^  1  wailed.  "Get  up  and 
act.  If  I  go  back  on  the  people  that  employ  me  and 
come  here  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  warn  you,  isn't 
it  the  least  you  can  do  to  take  advantage  of  it  and 
go?" 

She  wheeled  round  on  me,  her  face  all  alight  with  a 
wonderful  beaming  look. 

^^Thafs  the  reason,"  she  said.  "That's  what  made 
235 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


you  come — humanity — pity !  You've  risked  everything 
to  help  me.  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  you've  done — 
what  courage  you've  put  into  me.  And  you  don't  know 
what  my  gratitude  is." 

Before  I  knew  it  she  had  seized  hold  of  one  of  my 
hands  and  held  it  against  her  heart,  with  her  head 
bowed  over  it  as  if  she  was  praying. 

Do  you  guess  how  /  felt?  Ashamed? — perishing 
with  it,  ready  to  sink  down  on  the  floor  and  pass 
away.  A  murderess  no  doubt  but  even  if  a  murderess 
thinks  you  did  her  a  good  turn  when  you  didn't  it 
makes  you  feel  like  a  snake's  a  high-class  animal  be- 
side you. 

"Oh,  come  on,"  I  begged.  "Let  go  of  me  and  get 
out." 

She  dropped  my  hand  and  looked  at  me — Oh,  so  soft 
and  sweet ! — and  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes.  That  pretty 
near  finished  me  and  I  wailed  out : 

"Don't  stop  to  cry.  You  don't  know  but  what  they 
might  get  uneasy  and  come  tonight.  Put  on  your 
things  and  ^o." 

Hadn't  I  got  to  hurry  her?  If  Jack  made  a  quick 
trip  he'd  be  back  in  town  between  two  and  three  and 
he'd  come  as  straight  as  wheels  could  take  him  to  her 
door. 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  she  said. 

2S6 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Now,"  I  urged,  "as  soon  as  you  can  get  into  your 
coat  and  hat.  Don't  bother  about  this,"  I  pointed 
to  the  disorder  round  us — ^"They'll  think  you've 
had  another  message  from  Barker  and  gone  to 
him." 

A  curious,  slight  smile  came  over  her  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  what  they  will  think,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Of  course  it  is,  and  they'll  waste  time  looking  for 
him  which'U  give  you  a  good  start.  If  there's  no  train 
now  to  the  place  you're  going  to,  sit  in  the  depot,  ride 
round  in  a  taxi,  walk  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue,  only 
get  out  of  this  place." 

"I'll  be  gone  in  half  an  hour,"  she  said,  and  moved 
between  the  trunks  and  piled  up  clothes  to  the  bedroom 
beyond.  I  followed  her  and  saw  into  the  room,  all  con- 
fusion like  the  others,  every  gas  in  the  chandelier  blaz- 
ing. 

"Can  I  help  you?"  I  said.  "Can  I  pack  a  suitcase  or 
anything?" 

"No — "she  halted  in  front  of  the  mirror,  letting  the 
kimono  slide  off  her  to  the  floor,  her  arms  and  neck  like 
shining  marble  under  that  blaze  of  light.  *'I'll  only 
want  a  few  things.  There's  a  bag  there  I  can  throw 
them  into.    You'd  better  go  now." 

I  was  afraid  she'd  not  be  as  quick  as  I  wanted  but  I 
237 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


couldn't  hang  round  urging  any  more  after  she'd  told 
me  to  go.  Besides  I  could  see  she  was  hurrying,  grab- 
bing a  dress  from  the  bed  and  getting  into  it  so  swiftly 
even  I  was  satisfied. 

"Well  then  I'm  off,"  I  said. 

She  looked  up  from  the  hooks  she  was  snapping  to- 
gether and  said: 

**Before  you  go  tell  me  who  you  are?" 

"There's  no  need  for  that,"  I  answered,  thinking 
she'd  probably  never  see  me  again.  "I'm  just  someone 
that  blew  in  tonight  for  a  minute  and  who's  going  like 
she  came." 

"Someone  I'll  never  forget,"  she  said,  "and  that 
some  day,  if  all  goes  well,  I'll  be  able  to  pay  back." 

I  was  afraid  she  was  going  to  get  grateful  again 
and  I  couldn't  stand  any  more  of  that.  So  with  a  quick 
"good-bye"  away  I  went,  up  the  hall,  opening  the  door 
without  a  sound,  and  stealing  down  the  stairs  as  soft 
as  a  robber. 

Out  in  the  street  I  stopped  and  reconnoitered. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight  except  a  policeman  lounging 
dreary  on  the  next  corner.  Across  from  the  apartment 
was  the  entrance  of  a  little  shop — tobacco  and  light 
literature — and  into  that  I  crept,  squeezing  back  against 
the  glass  door.  I  couldn't  be  at  peace  till  I  saw  her 
leave  and  for  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  I  stood  there 

238 


Tlie  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


watching  the  lights  in  her  windows.  Then  suddenly 
they  began  to  go  out,  across  the  front  and  along  down 
the  side,  till  every  pane  was  black.  A  few  minutes  later, 
she  came  down  the  steps  carrying  a  bag.  She  stopped 
close  to  where  I  was,  and  hailed  a  car,  and  not  till  I  saw 
it  start  with  her  sitting  by  the  door,  did  I  steal  out  of 
my  hiding  place  and  sprint  up  the  street  to  Madison 
Avenue. 

When  I  reached  home  I  was  shivering  and  wild-eyed, 
for  if  Babbitts  was  there  what  could  I  say  to  him?  He 
wasn't — thank  Heaven! — and  cold  as  ice,  feeling  as  if 
I'd  been  through  a  mangle,  I  crawled  into  bed. 

There  wasn't  much  sleep  for  me  that  night.  About  all 
I  could  say  to  myself  was  that  I'd  saved  Jack.  But  the 
others — Oh,  the  others!  I  couldn't  get  them  out  of  my 
mind.  They'd  come  in  a  procession  across  the  dark 
and  look  at  me  sad  and  reproachful.  Mr.  Whitney, 
who'd  done  everything  in  the  world  for  me,  and  Mr. 
George,  who  could  put  on  such  side,  but  had  always 
been  so  kind  and  cordial,  and  O'Mally,  who'd  told  Bab- 
bitts the  case  was  going  to  make  him,  and  Babbitts — 
Oh,  Babbitts! 

I  rolled  over  on  the  pillow  and  cried  scalding,  bitter 
tears.  It  wasn't  only  the  scoop — it  was  that  I'd  have 
a  secret  from  him  forever — ^him  that  up  to  now  had 
known  every  thought  in  my  mind,  had  been  like  the  other 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


half  of  me.  They  say  virtue  is  its  own  reward,  and  I've 
always  believed  it.  But  that  night  I  had  the  awful 
thought  that  maybe  I'd  done  wrong,  for  all  the  reward 
I  got  was  to  feel  like  an  outcast  with  a  stone  for  a  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

THAT  night  when  I  left  Molly  there  was  only  one 
thought  in  my  mind — to  reach  Carol  and  help 
her  get  away.  If  the  figure  of  Barker  had  not 
stood  between  us  I  would  have  then  and  there  implored 
her  to  marry  me  and  give  me  the  right  to  fight  for  her. 
But  I  knew  that  was  hopeless.  As  things  stood,  all  I 
could  do  was  to  tell  her  the  situation  and  give  her  a 
chance  to  escape. 

I  suppose  it's  a  pretty  damaging  confession  but  the 
office,  my  duty  to  my  work  and  my  associates,  cut  no 
ice  at  all.  Heretofore  I'd  rather  patted  myself  on  the 
back  as  a  man  who  stood  by  his  obligations.  That  night 
only  one  obligation  existed  for  me — to  protect  from 
disgrace  the  woman  I  loved. 

I  knew  the  trains  to  Azalea — it  was  on  the  road  to 
Firehill — and  though  one  left  at  midnight,  the  last  train 
on  the  branch  line  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  had  long 
gone.  The  shortest  and  quickest  way  for  me  to  get 
there  was  to  take  out  my  own  car.  This  would  also  in- 
sure the  necessary  secrecy.    I  could  bring  her  back  with 

241 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


me  and  let  her  slip  away  in  the  crowds  at  one  of  the  big 
stations. 

It  was  a  wild,  windy  night,  a  waning  moon  showing 
between  long  streamers  of  clouds.  By  the  time  I  struck 
the  New  Jersey  shore — after  maddening  delays  in  the 
garage  and  at  the  ferry — it  was  getting  on  for  one,  and 
the  clouds  had  spread  black  over  the  sky.  It  was  a 
fiendish  ride  for  a  man  on  fire  as  I  was.  For  miles  the 
road  looped  through  a  country  as  dark  as  a  pocket, 
broken  with  ice-skimmed  pools  and  deep-driven  ruts.  In 
the  daylight  I  could  have  made  the  whole  distance  in- 
side an  hour,  but  it  was  after  two  when  I  came  to  the 
branch  line  junction  and  turned  up  the  long  winding 
road  that  led  over  the  hills  to  the  Azalea  Woods  Es- 
tates. 

As  I  sighted  the  little  red-roofed  station  and  the 
houses  dotted  over  the  tract,  the  moon  came  out  and  I 
slowed  up,  having  no  idea  where  the  cottage  was  or  what 
it  looked  like.  The  place  was  quiet  as  the  grave,  the 
light  sleeping  on  the  pale  walls  of  the  stucco  villas 
backed  by  the  wooded  darkness  of  the  hills. 

I  was  preparing  to  get  out  and  rouse  one  of  the 
slumbering  inhabitants  when  I  heard  the  voices  of  wom- 
en. They  were  coming  down  a  side  road  and  looking 
up  it  I  saw  three  figures  moving  toward  me,  their  shad- 
ows slanting  black  in  front  of  them.    At  the  gate  of  a 

242 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


large,  white-walled  house,  two  of  them  turned  in,  their 
good-nights  clear  on  the  frosty  air,  and  the  third  ad- 
vanced in  my  direction.  I  could  see  her  skirts,  light- 
colored  below  her  long  dark  coat,  and  her  head  tied  up 
in  some  sort  of  scarf.  By  their  clothes  and  voices  I 
judged  them  to  be  servant  girls  coming  back  from  a 
party. 

As  she  approached  I  hailed  her  with  a  careful  ques- 
tion: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  think  I'm  lost.  Can  you 
tell  me  where  I  am?" 

"I  can,"  she  said,  drawing  up  by  the  car.  "You're 
in  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates." 

"Oh,  I  am  a  bit  out  of  my  way.  The  Azalea  Woods 
Estates,"  I  surveyed  the  scattered  houses  and  wide-cut 
avenues,  "I've  heard  of  them  but  never  seen  them  before. 
Doesn't  a  Mrs.  Whitehall  live  here?" 

The  girl  smiled;  she  had  a  pleasant,  good-natured 
face. 

"She  surely  does — in  the  Regan  cottage  over  be- 
yond the  crest  there.  I'm  living  with  her,  doing  the 
heavy  work,  until  she  gets  settled.  I  belong  on  the  big 
farm,  but  as  she  was  lonesome  and  had  no  girl  I  said  I'd 
come  over  and  stay  till  her  daughter  joined  her." 

I  smothered  a  start — co^dd  Molly  have  made  a  mis- 
take? 

243 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


'Her  daughter,  eh?     Isn't  her  daughter  with  her 


now: 


?» 


"No,  sir.  She's  coming  tomorrow  afternoon,  then 
I'm  going  home.  We'll  have  the  cottage  all  ready  for 
her.  She's  not  expected  till  the  2.40  from  town.  Do 
jou  know  the  ladies  ?" 

I  bent  over  the  wheel,  afraid  even  by  that  pale  light 
my  face  might  show  too  much.  Molly  had  made 
a  mistake,  sent  me  out  here  on  a  fruitless  quest,  wasted 
three  or  four  precious  hours.  I  could  have  wrung  her 
neck.    I  heard  my  voice  veiled  and  husky  as  I  answered : 

*'Only  by  hearsay.  I  knew  Miss  Whitehall  was  the 
head  of  the  enterprise,  that's  all.  Er — er — it's  Azalea 
I'm  aiming  for.     How  do  I  get  there?" 

She  laughed. 

"Well  you  are  out  of  your  way.  You'll  have  to  go 
back  to  the  Junction  on  the  main  line.  Then  follow  the 
road  straight  ahead  and  you'll  strike  Azalea — about 
twenty  miles  farther  on." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  and  began  to  back  the  car  for 
the  turn. 

"No  thanks,"  she  answered  and  as  I  swung  around 
called  out  a  cheery  "Good  night." 

That  ride  back — shall  I  ever  forget  it !  It  was  as  if 
an  evil  genius  was  halting  me  by  every  means  malev- 
olence could  devise.     Before  I  reached  the  highway  the 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


moon  disappeared  and  the  darkness  settled  down  like  a 
blanket.  The  wind  was  in  my  face  this  way  and  it  stung 
till  the  water  ran  out  of  my  eyes.  Squinting  through 
tears  I  had  to  make  out  the  line  of  the  road,  black  be- 
tween black  hedges  and  blacker  fields.  I  went  as  fast  as 
I  dared — nothing  must  happen  to  me  that  night  for  if 
/  failed  her,  Carol  was  lost.  With  the  desire  to  let  the 
car  out  as  if  I  was  competing  in  the  Vanderbilt  Cup 
Race,  I  had  to  slow  down  for  corners  and  creep  through 
the  long  winding  ways  that  threaded  the  woods. 

And  finally — in  a  barren  stretch  without  a  light  or 
a  house  in  sight  a  tire  blew  out !  I  won't  write  about  it 
■■ — ^what's  the  use  ?  It's  enough  to  say  it  was  nearly  six, 
and  the  East  pale  with  the  new  day,  when  I  rushed  into 
Jersey  City.  I  was  desperate  then,  and  police  or  no 
police,  flashed  like  a  gray  streak  through  the  town  to 
the  ferry. 

On  the  boat  I  had  time  to  think.  I  decided  to  phone 
her,  tell  her  I  was  coming  and  to  be  dressed  and  ready. 
I  could  still  get  her  off  three  or  four  hours  ahead  of 
them.  I  stopped  at  the  first  drug  store  and  called  her 
up.  The  wait  seemed  endless,  then  a  drawling,  nasal 
voice  said,  "I  can't  raise  the  number.  Lenox  1360  don't 
answer."  I  got  back  in  the  car  with  my  teeth  set — 
sleeping  so  sound  on  this  morning  of  all  mornings! 
Poor,  unsuspecting  Carol ! 

^45 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  day  was  bright,  the  slanting  sun  rays  touching 
roofs  and  chimneys,  when  I  ran  up  along  the  curb  at 
her  door.  An  old  man  in  a  dirty  jumper  who  was  sweep- 
ing the  sidewalk,  stopped  as  he  saw  me  leap  out  and  run 
up  the  steps.  The  outer  door  was  shut  and  as  I  turned 
I  almost  ran  into  him,  standing  at  my  heels  with 
his  broom  in  his  hand.  He  said  he  was  the  janitor, 
took  a  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket,  and  unlocked 
the  door,  fastening  the  two  leaves  back  as  I  pressed  her 
bell. 

There  was  no  answering  click  of  the  latch  and  I  tried 
the  inner  door — fast,  and  all  my  shaking  failed  to  budge 
it. 

"Isn't  Miss  Whitehall  here.?"  I  said,  turning  on  the 
man  who  was  watching  me  interestedly. 

"Sure,"  he  answered.  "Anyways  she  was  last  night. 
She  talked  to  me  down  the  dumbwaiter  at  seven  and 
told  me  she  wasn't  going  till  this  afternoon." 

"Open  the  door,"  I  ordered,  speaking  as  quietly  as  I 
could.  "She's  probably  asleep — I've  an  important  mes- 
sage for  her,  and  I  want  to  give  it  now  before  I  go 
downtown." 

He  did  as  I  told  him  and  I  ran  up  the  stairs,  and 
pressed  the  electric  button  at  her  door.  As  I  waited  I 
heard  the  janitor's  slow  steps  pounding  up  behind  me, 
but  from  the  closed  apartment  there  was  not  a  sound. 

£46 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"She  ain't  there,  I  guess,"  he  said  as  he  gained  the 
landing.    "She  must  have  gone  last  night." 

I  turned  on  him : 

"Have  you  a  key  for  this  apartment  ?" 

"I've  a  key  for  every  apartment,"  he  answered,  hold- 
ing out  the  bunch  in  his  hand. 

"Then  open  the  door.  If  she's  not  here  I've  got  to 
know  it." 

He  inserted  a  key  in  the  lock  and  in  a  minute  we  were 
inside.  The  morning  light  filtered  in  through  drawn 
blinds,  showing  a  deserted  place,  left  in  the  chaos  of  a 
hasty  move.  Everything  was  in  disorder,  trunks  open, 
furniture  stacked  and  covered.  The  curtains  to  the 
front  bedroom  that  I'd  always  seen  closed  were  pulled 
back,  revealing  the  evidences  of  a  hurried  packing, 
clothes  on  the  bed,  bureau  drawers  half  out,  a  purple 
silk  thing  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  floor. 

She  was  gone,  gone  in  wild  haste,  gone  like  one  who 
leaves  on  a  summons  as  imperative  as  the  call  of  death — 
or  love! 

"She's  evidently  gone  to  her  mother  or  some  friend 
for  the  night,"  I  said  carelessly.  "She'll  be  back  again 
to  finish  it  up." 

The  janitor  agreed  and  asked  if  I'd  leave  a  message. 
No,  I'd  phone  up  later.  I  cautioned  him  to  keep  my 
visit  quiet  and  he  nodded  understandingly — took  me  for 

247 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  desperate  lover,  which  Heaven  knows  I  was.  But  in 
order  to  run  no  risks  of  his  speaking  to  those  who  would 
follow  me,  I  sealed  his  lips  with  a  bill  that  left  him 
speechless  and  bowing  to  the  ground. 

I  was  in  my  own  apartment  before  Joanna  and  David 
were  up,  ready  to  be  called  to  breakfast  from  what  they, 
in  their  fond  old  hearts,  thought  was  a  good  night's  rest. 
Sitting  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  with  my  head  in  my 
hands,  I  struggled  for  the  coolness  that  day  would  need. 
Of  course  she'd  gone  to  Barker — nothing  else  explained 
it.  The  state  of  the  apartment  proved  she  had  intended 
leaving  for  the  cottage,  her  mother  had  unquestionably 
expected  her,  not  a  soul  in  the  world  but  myself  could 
have  warned  her.  Only  another  command  from  the  man 
who  ruled  her  life  could  account  for  her  disappearance. 
Some  time  that  night  she  had  heard  from  him,  and 
once  again  had  gone  to  join  him.  I  tried  to  dull  my 
pain  with  the  thought  that  she  was  safe,  kept  whisper- 
ing it  over  and  over,  and  through  it  and  under  it  like  the 
unspoken  anguish  of  a  nightmare  went  the  other,  "She's 
with  him,  flown  to  him,  in  his  arms." 

There  was  fury  in  me  against  every  man  in  the  Whit- 
ney office,  but  I  could  no  more  have  kept  away  from  it 
than  I  could  have  from  her  if  she'd  been  near  me.  At 
nine  o'clock  I  was  there  and  found  the  chief,  George  and 
O'Mally  already  assembled.     The  air  was  charged  with 

^48 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


excitement,  the  long,  slow  work  had  reached  its  climax, 
the  bloodhounds  were  in  sight  of  the  quarry.  I  could 
see  the  assurance  of  victory  in  their  faces,  hear  it  in  the 
triumphant  note  of  their  voices.  I  don't  think  any  man 
has  evei*  stood  higher  in  my  esteem  than  Wilbur  Whit- 
ney, but  that  morning,  with  the  machinery  of  his  devis- 
ing ready  to  close  on  his  victim,  I  hated  him. 

Immediately  after  I  arrived  they  sent  a  phone  mes- 
sage to  her.  I  sat  back  near  the  window,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  member  of  the  quar- 
tette. When  the  reply  came  that  the  number  didn't 
answer  they  concluded  she  was  out,  arranging  for  her 
departure  that  afternoon.  The  second  message  went  at 
9.30,  and  on  the  receipt  of  the  same  answer,  a  slight, 
premonitory  uneasiness  was  visible.  A  third  call  was 
sent  a  few  minutes  before  ten  and  this  time  central  vol- 
unteered the  information  that  "Lenox  1360  wasn't  an- 
swering at  all  that  morning." 

The  chief  and  O'Mally  kept  their  pose  of  an  unruf- 
fled confidence,  but  George  couldn't  fake  it — he  was 
wild-eyed  with  alarm.  After  a  few  minutes'  consulta- 
tion O'Mally  was  sent  off  to  find  out  what  was  up,  leav- 
ing the  chief  musing  in  his  big  chair  and  George  swing- 
ing like  a  pendulum  from  room  to  room.  I  had  to  listen 
to  him — ^he  only  got  grunts  from  his  father — and  it 
took  pretty  nearly  all  the  control  I  had  to  answer  the 

^49 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


stream  of  questions  and  surmises  he  deluged  me  with. 

When  O'Mally  came  back  with  the  news  that  the  bird 
had  flown,  the  fall  of  the  triumph  of  Whitney  &  Whit- 
ney was  dire  and  dreadful.  The  announcement  was  met 
by  dead  silence,  then  George  burst  out  sentences  of 
sputtering  fury,  heads  would  drop  in  the  basket  after 
this.  Even  the  chief  was  shaken  out  of  his  stolidity, 
rising  from  his  chair,  a  terrible,  old  figure,  fierce  and 
bristling  like  an  angry  lion.  I  don't  think  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  firm  they'd  ever  had  a  worse  jar,  a  more 
complete  collapse  in  the  moment  of  victory. 

But  O'Mally  and  the  old  man  were  too  tried  and  sea- 
soned timber  to  let  their  rage  stand  in  the  way.  The 
detective  had  hardly  finished  before  they  were  up  at  the 
table  getting  at  their  next  move.  All  were  agreed  that 
she  had  had  another  communication  from  Barker  and 
had  gone  to  him.  They  saw  it  as  I  had — as  anyone  who 
knew  the  circumstances  would.  The  first  message  had 
been  by  phone,  the  second  might  have  been,  and  there 
was  the  shade  of  a  possibility  that  she  might  have 
phoned  back.  If  she  had  there  would  be  a  record,  easily 
traced.  The  power  of  the  Whitney  ofiice  stretched  far 
and  through  devious  channels.  In  fifteen  minutes  the 
machinery  was  started  to  have  the  records  of  aU  out  of 
town  messages  sent  from  Lenox  1360  within  the  last 
week  turned  in  to  Whitney  &  Whitney. 

g60 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


It  was  what  I'd  feared,  but  I  was  powerless,  also  I 
thought  the  chances  were  in  her  favor.  Barker,  no  mat- 
ter how  he  loved  her,  might  not  dare  to  trust  her  with 
his  telephone  number.  Judging  bj  the  way  he  had  frus- 
trated all  our  efforts  to  find  him,  he  was  taking  no 
risks.  It  would  have  been  in  keeping  with  his  unremit- 
ting caution  to  hold  all  communications  with  her  by  let- 
ter. That  kept  me  quiet,  kept  me  from  bursting  out  on 
them  as  they  schemed  and  plotted  close  drawn  round 
the  table. 

The  next  move  was  suggested  by  the  chief — to  find 
Mrs.  Whitehall  and  bring  her  to  the  office.  In  default 
of  the  daughter  they  would  try  the  mother.  All  were 
of  the  opinion  that  the  older  woman  was  ignorant  of  the 
murder,  but  it  was  possible  that  she  might  know  some- 
thing of  her  daughter's  movements.  And  even  if  she 
didn't,  that  attack  by  surprise  which  was  to  have  broken 
down  Carol  Whitehall  might,  tried  in  a  lesser  degree, 
draw  forth  some  illuminating  facts  from  her  mother.  It 
was  nearly  midday  when  George  and  O'Mally  set  out  in 
a  high-powered  motor  for  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates. 

I  spent  the  next  few  hours  in  my  own  ofllce,  sitting  at 
the  desk.  Every  nerve  was  as  tight  as  a  violin  string, 
hope  and  dread  changing  places  in  my  mind.  Awful 
hours,  now  when  I  look  back  on  them.  The  whole  thing 
hung  on  a  chance.    If  her  recent  communications  with 

^51 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Barker  had  been  bj  letter,  if  her  mother  knew  nothing, 
there  was  a  fighting  hope  for  her.  But  if  she  knew  his 
number  and  had  phoned — if  her  flight  had  been  planned 
and  Mrs.  Whitehall  did  know !  I  remembered  her  as  I'd 
seen  her  in  the  country,  a  fragile,  melancholy  woman. 
What  chance  had  she  with  the  men  pitted  against  her  ? 

I  don't  know  what  time  it  was,  but  the  sun  had  swung 
round  to  the  window,  when  I  heard  steps  in  the  passage 
and  a  woman's  voice,  high  and  quavering.  I  leaped  up 
and  entered  the  chief's  office  by  one  door  as  Mrs.  White- 
hall, George  and  O'Mally  came  in  by  the  other. 

She  looked  pale  and  shriveled.  I  didn't  then  know 
what  they'd  said  to  her,  whether  they'd  already  tried 
their  damnable  third  degree.  But  they  hadn't,  all  they 
had  done  was  to  tell  her  her  daughter  had  been  wanted 
at  the  Whitney  office  and  couldn't  be  found.  That 
scared  her,  she'd  come  with  them  at  once,  only  insisting 
that  they  stop  at  the  flat  and  let  her  see  that  Carol  was 
not  there.  This  they  did,  admitting  afterward  that  her 
surprise  and  alarm  struck  them  as  absolutely  genuine. 

These  emotions  were  plain  on  her  face ;  any  fool  could 
see  she  was  racked  with  fear  and  anxiety.  It  was 
stamped  on  her  features,  it  was  in  her  wildly  question- 
ing eyes. 

"Mr.  Whitney,"  she  said,  without  preamble  or  greet- 
ing, "what  does  this  mean?    Where  is  my  daughter?" 

^5g 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  old  man  was  as  courteous  as  ever,  but  under  the 
studied  urbanity  of  his  manner,  I  could  feel  the  knife- 
edged  sharpness  that  only  cut  through  when  his  blood 
was  up. 

"That  is  what  we  want  to  know  from  you,  Mrs. 
Whitehall.  We  needed  some  information  from  your 
daughter  this  morning  and  we  find  that  she  has — I 
tliink  I  may  say,  fled.  Where  to,  surely  you,  her 
mother,  must  know." 

*'No,"  she  cried,  her  hollow  eyes  riveted  on  his.  "No. 
She  was  coming  to  me  this  afternoon,  everything  was 
arranged,  ready  and  waiting.  And  now  she's  gone,  and 
you,  you  men  here,  want  to  find  her.  What  is  it? 
There's  something  strange,  something  I  don't  know." 
Her  glance  moved  over  the  watching  faces.  They  were 
ominously  unresponsive.  Where  she  looked  for  hope  or 
help  she  saw  nothing  but  a  veiled  menace,  every  moment 
growing  clearer. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried,  her  voice  rising  to  a  higher 
note,  shrill  and  shaking.  "What  is  the  matter?  Tell 
me.  You  know — you  know  something  you're  hiding 
from  me?" 

"We  think  that  of  you,  Mrs.  Whitehall,"  said  the 
chief,  ponderous  and  lowering,  "and  we  want  to  hear  it. 
The  time  has  come  for  frankness.  Hold  nothing  back 
for,  as  you  say,  we  know" 

^53 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


The  woman  gave  a  gasp  and  took  a  step  nearer  to 
him: 

"Then  for  God's  sake  tell  me.    Where  has  she  gone?" 

His  answer  came  like  the  spring  of  an  animal  on  its 
prey: 

"To  join  her  lover,  Johnston  Barker." 

If  he  expected  to  have  it  strike  with  an  impact  he  was 
not  disappointed.  She  fell  back  as  if  threatened  by  a 
blow,  and  for  a  second  stood  transfixed,  aghast,  her 
lower  jaw  dropped,  staring  at  him.  Amazement  isn't 
the  word  for  the  look  on  her  face,  it  was  a  stupefaction, 
a  paralysis  of  astonishment.  The  shock  was  so  violent 
it  swept  away  all  anxiety  for  her  daughter,  but  it  also 
snapped  the  last  frail  remnant  of  her  nerve.  From  her 
pale  lips  her  voice  broke  in  a  wild,  hysterical  cry : 

"Her  lover!    He  was  her /a ^/i^r/" 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

JACK   TELLS   THE    STORY 

IN  the  moment  of  silence  which  followed  that  sentence 
you  could  hear  the  fire  snap  and  the  tick  of  the 
clock  on  the  mantel.  I  saw  the  men's  faces  held  in 
expressions  of  amazement  so  intense  they  looked  like 
caricatures.  I  saw  Mrs.  Whitehall  try  to  say  some- 
thing, then  with  a  rustle  and  a  broken  cry  crumple  up 
in  a  chair,  her  face  hidden,  stuttering,  choked  sounds 
coming  from  behind  her  hands. 

That  broke  the  tension.  Like  a  piece  of  machinery 
momentarily  out  of  gear,  the  group  adjusted  itself 
and  snapped  back  into  action.  All  but  me — I  stood  as 
I  had  been  standing  when  Mrs.  Whitehall  spoke  those 
words.  My  outward  vision  saw  their  moving  figures, 
their  backs  as  they  crowded  round  her,  a  hand  that  held 
a  glass  to  her  lips,  her  face  bent  toward  the  glass,  ashen 
and  haggard.  I  saw  but  realized  nothing.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  was  on  another  plane  of  existence,  seemed  to  be 
shot  up  into  it.  I  don't  tell  it  right — a  fellow  who 
doesn't  know  how  to  write  can't  explain  a  feeling  like 
that.     You've  got  to  fill  it  in  out  of  your  imagination. 

255 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


A  man  who's  been  in  hell  gets  suddenly  out — that's  the 
best  way  I  can  describe  it. 

I  didn't  get  back  to  my  moorings,  come  down  from 
the  clouds  to  the  solid  ground,  till  the  scene  by  the  table 
was  over.  Mrs.  Whitehall  ^as  sitting  up,  a  little  color 
in  her  cheeks,  mistress  of  herself  again.  They'd  evi- 
dently said  something  to  lull  her  fears  about  Carol  for 
the  distraction  of  her  mood  was  gone.  It  wasn't  till  I 
saw  the  narrowed  interest  of  George's  eyes,  the  hungry 
expectation  of  O'Mally's  watching  face,  that  I  remem- 
bered they  were  still  on  the  scent  of  a  murder  in  which 
Barker's  daughter  was  as  much  involved  as  Barker's 
fiancee.  That  brought  7ne  back  to  the  moment  and  its 
meaning  like  an  electric  shock. 

I  made  a  stride  forward,  to  get  closer,  to  hear  them, 
fpr  they  were  at  the  table  again,  waiting  on  the  words 
of  Mrs.  Whitehall.  The  first  sentence  that  struck  my 
ear  aptly  matched  her  pitiful  appearance: 

"Gentlemen,  I'm  broken.  I've  been  through  too 
much." 

The  chief  answered  very  gently: 

"Having  said  what  you  have,  would  it  not  be  wisdom 
to  tell  us  everything?    We  pledge  ourselves  to  secrecy." 

She  nodded,  a  gesture  of  weary  acquiescence. 

"Oh,  yes.  I  don't  mind  telling — it  was  to  be  told; 
but,"  she  dropped  her  eyes  to  her  hands  clasped  in  her 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


lap.     In  that  position  her  likeness  to  Carol,  as  she  had  ^ 
sat  there  a  few  weeks  before,  was  singularly  striking. 
"I'll  have  to  go  back  a  good  many  years,  before  my 
child  was  born,  before  the  world  had  heard  of  Johnston 
Barker." 

"Wherever  you  want,  Mrs.  Whitehall,"  the  chief  mur- 
mured.    "We're  entirely  at  your  service." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  without  raising  her  eyes 
said: 

"I  was  married  to  Johnston  Barker  twenty-eight 
years  ago  in  Idaho.  He  was  a  miner  then  and  I  was  a 
school  teacher,  nineteen  years  old,  an  orphan  with  no 
near  relations.  I  was  not  strong  and  had  gone  to  the 
Far  West  for  my  health.  Under  the  unaccustomed 
work  I  broke  down,  developing  a  weakness  of  the  lungs, 
and  casual  friends,  the  parents  of  a  pupil,  took  me  with 
them  to  a  distant  mining  camp  for  the  drier  air.  There 
I  met  Johnston  and  we  became  engaged. 

"In  those  days  in  such  remote  places  there  were  no 
churches  or  clergymen  and  contract  marriages  were 
recognized.  I  did  not  believe  in  them,  would  not  at  first 
consent  to  such  a  ceremony,  but  a  great  strike  taking 
place  in  a  distant  camp,  he  prevailed  upon  me  to  marry 
him  by  contract,  the  friends  with  whom  I  was  living  act- 
ing as  witnesses. 

"The  place  to  which  he  took  me  was  wild  and  inac- 
257 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


cessible,  connecting  by  trails  with  other  camps  and  by  a 
long  stage  journey  with  a  distant  railway  station.  We 
lived  there  for  a  month — happy  as  I  have  never  been 
since.  Then  a  woman,  a  snake  in  the  garden,  finding  out 
how  I  had  married  hinted  to  me  that  such  contracts  were 
illegal.  I  don't  know  why  she  did  it — I've  often  won- 
dered— but  there  are  people  in  the  world  who  take  a 
pleasure  in  spoiling  the  joy  of  others. 

"I  didn't  tell  Johnston  but  resolved  when  an  oppor- 
tunity came  to  stand  up  with  him  before  an  ordained 
minister.  It  came  sooner  than  I  hoped.  Not  six  weeks 
after  we  were  man  and  wife  a  'missioner'  made  a  tour 
through  the  mining  camps  of  that  part  of  the  state.  He 
would  not  come  to  ours — we  were  too  small  and  distant 
— so  I  begged  my  husband  to  go  to  him,  tell  him  our 
case  and  bring  him  back.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
us  both  to  have  gone,  but  I  was  sick — too  young  and 
ignorant  to  know  the  cause  of  ray  illness — and  John- 
ston, who  seemed  willing  to  do  anything  I  wanted, 
agreed. 

"We  calculated  that  the  trip — on  horseback,  over 
half-cut  mountain  trails — would  take  three  or  four  days 
there  and  back.  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  day  he  had  not 
returned  and  I  was  in  a  fever  of  anxiety.  Then  again 
that  woman  came  to  me  with  her  poisoned  words :  I  was 
not  a  legal  wife ;  could  he,  knowing  this,  have  taken  the 

258 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


opportunity  to  desert  me  ?  God  pity  her  for  the  deadly 
harm  she  did.  Sick,  alone,  inexperienced,  eaten  into  by 
horrible  doubts,  I  waited  till  two  weeks  had  passed. 
Then  I  was  sure  that  he  had  done  as  she  said — left  me. 

"I  won't  go  over  that — the  past  is  past.  I  took  what 
money  I  had  and  made  my  way  to  the  railway.  From 
there  by  slow  stages,  for  by  this  time  I  was  ill  in  mind 
and  body,  I  got  as  far  as  St.  Louis,  where,  my  money 
gone,  unable  to  work,  I  wrote  to  an  uncle  of  my  moth- 
er's, a  doctor,  whom  I  had  never  seen  but  of  whom  she 
had  often  spoken  to  me. 

**Men  like  him  make  us  realize  there  is  a  God  to  in- 
spire, a  Heaven  to  reward.  He  came  at  once,  took  me  to 
his  home  in  Indiana,  and  nursed  me  back  to  health.  He 
was  a  father  to  me,  more  than  a  father  to  the  child  I 
had.  No  one  knew  me  there — no  one  but  he  ever  heard 
my  story.  I  took  a  new  name,  from  a  distant  branch  of 
his  family,  and  passed  as  a  widow.  When  my  little  girl 
was  old  enough  to  understand  I  told  her  her  father  had 
died  before  she  was  born. 

"We  lived  there  for  twenty-four  years.  Before  the 
end  of  that  time  the  name  of  Johnston  Barker  rose  into 
prominence.  My  uncle  hated  it — would  not  allow  it 
mentioned  in  his  presence.  When  he  died  three  years 
ago,  he  left  us  all  he  had — fifty  thousand  dollars,  a  great 
fortune  to  us.      Then  Carol,  who  had  chafed  at  the  nar- 

S69 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


row  life  of  a  small  town,  persuaded  me  to  come  to  New 
York.  I  had  no  fear  of  meeting  Barker,  our  paths 
would  never  cross,  and  to  please  her  was  mj  life. 

"She  is  not  like  me,  fearful  and  timid,  but  full  of  dar- 
ing and  ambition.  When  the  farm  we  bought  in  New 
Jersey  suddenly  increased  in  value  and  the  land  scheme 
was  suggested,  she  wanted  to  try  it.  At  first  it  wasn't 
possible  as  we  hadn't  enough  money.  It  was  not  until 
she  met  Mr.  Harland  at  a  friend's  house  in  Azalea,  that 
the  plan  became  feasible  for  he  was  taken  with  the  idea 
at  once.  After  visiting  the  farm  a  few  times,  and  talk- 
ing it  over  with  her,  he  offered  to  come  in  as  a  silent 
partner,  putting  up  the  capital. 

"The  move  to  town  alarmed  me.  There,  in  business, 
she  might  run  across  the  man  who  was  her  father — and 
this  is  exactly  what  happened.  You've  seen  my  daugh- 
ter— you  know  what  she  is.  Looking  at  me  now  you 
may  not  realize  that  she  is  extraordinarily  like  what  I 
was  when  Johnston  Barker  married  me. 

"He  saw  her  first  in  the  elevator  at  the  Black  Eagle 
Building.  Men  always  noticed  her — she  was  used  to  it 
— but  that  night  she  told  me  laughing  of  the  old  man 
who  had  stared  at  her  in  the  elevator,  stared  and  stared 
and  couldn't  take  his  eyes  off.  My  heart  warned  me, 
and  when  I  heard  her  description  I  knew  who  he  was  and 
why  he  stared. 

260 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"After  that  there  was  no  peace  for  me.  I  had  a 
haunting  terror  that  he  would  find  out  who  she  was  and 
might  try  to  claim  her.  This  increased  when  she  told 
me  of  his  visit  to  her  office  to  buy  the  lot — an  excuse  I 
understood — and  his  questions  about  her  former  home. 
Then  I  tried  to  quiet  myself  with  the  assurances  that  he 
could  not  possibly  guess — he  had  never  heard  the  name 
of  Whitehall  in  connection  with  me,  he  had  never  known 
a  child  was  expected. 

"But  a  night  came  when  I  was  put  with  my  back 
against  the  wall.  She  returned  from  work,  gay  and  ex- 
cited, saying  Mr.  Barker  had  been  in  the  office  that 
afternoon  and  asked  her  if  he  might  call  and  meet  her 
mother.  The  terrible  agitation  that  threw  me  into  be- 
trayed me.  I  couldn't  evade  her  eyes  or  her  questions, 
and  I  told  her.  She  was  horrified,  stunned.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  she  said — I  can  only  make  you  understand  her 
feelings  by  saying  she  loved  me  as  few  daughters  love 
their  mothers. 

"After  that — ah,  it  was  horrible !  She  tried  to  can- 
cel the  sale,  but  he — of  course,  he  was  angry  and  puz- 
zled by  the  change  in  her,  could  make  nothing  out  of  it, 
and  finally  insisted  on  knowing  what  had  happened. 
There  was  no  escape  for  her  and  taking  him  into  the 
private  office  they  had  an  interview  in  which  he  forced 
the  truth  from  her. 

261 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Johnston  Barker's  life  has  been  full  of  great  things, 
triumphs  and  conquests.  But  I  think  that  hour  in  the 
Azalea  Woods  Estates  office  must  have  been  the  crown- 
ing one  of  his  career.  To  hear  that  Carol,  my  wonder- 
ful Carol,  was  his  child!  He  had  had  no  suspicion  of  it 
until  then.  He  told  her  he  had  been  interested  by  her 
strange  likeness  to  me,  had  thought  she  might  be  some 
distant  connection,  who  could  give  him  news  of  his  lost 
wife. 

"For — ^liere  is  the  bitter  part  of  it — ^lie  had  come 
back.  In  that  long  mountain  journey  an  accident,  a 
fall  from  his  horse,  had  injured  him.  He  had  been  found 
unconscious  by  a  party  of  miners  who  had  taken  him  to 
their  camp  and  cared  for  him.  For  two  weeks  he  lay 
at  death's  door,  no  one  knowing  who  he  was,  or  under- 
standing the  wanderings  of  his  delirium.  When  he  re- 
turned I  was  gone — lost  like  a  raindrop  in  the  ocean. 
He  was  too  poor  to  hire  the  aid  that  might  have  found 
me  then.  He  went  back  to  his  work,  moved  to  other 
camps,  struggled  and  thrived.  In  time  the  story  of  his 
marriage  was  forgotten.  Those  who  remembered  it  set 
it  down  as  an  illegal  connection,  a  familiar  incident  in 
the  miner's  roving  life. 

"Years  later,  when  he  grew  rich  he  hunted  for  me, 
but  it  was  too  late.  Then  he  turned  his  whole  attention 
to  business,  flung  himself  into  it.    The  making  of  money 

^62 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


filled  his  life,  became  his  life  till  he  saw  the  girl  in  the 
elevator,  who  so  strikingly  resembled  the  woman  he  had 
loved  in  his  youth. 

"This  was  what  he  told  Carol  and  this  she  believed. 
She  was  convinced  of  the  truth  of  every  word  and  tried 
to  convince  me.  But  I  was  full  of  suspicions.  Having 
found  himself  the  father  of  such  a  girl  might  he  not  go 
to  any  lengths  to  gain  her  love  and  confidence?  His 
life  was  empty,  he  was  lonely,  Carol  would  have  been 
the  consolation  and  pride  of  his  old  age.  Gentlemen — " 
she  looked  at  the  listening  faces — "can  you  blame  me.? 
A  youth  blasted,  years  of  brooding  bitterness — might 
not  that  make  a  woman  incredulous  and  slow  to  trust 
again .? 

"When  she  saw  the  way  I  took  it  she  went  about  the 
business  of  proving  it.  Through  a  lawyer  she  learned 
that  contract  marriages  at  that  time  in  that  state  were 
valid.  I  had  been  Johnston  Barker's  wife  and  she  was 
legitimate.  But  I  hung  back.  Many  things  moved  me. 
He  wanted  to  acknowledge  us,  take  us  to  live  with  him 
and  I  shrank  from  all  that  publicity  and  clamor.  Also 
— I  am  telling  everything — I  think  I  was  jealous  of  him, 
fearful  that  he  might  take  from  me  some  of  the  love 
which  had  made  my  life  possible. 

"I  knew  she  saw  him  often,  and  that  she  heard  from 
him  by  letter.     All  through  the  end  of  December  and 

263 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  early  part  of  January  she  urged  and  pleaded  with 
me.  And  finally  I  gave  in — I  had  to,  I  couldn't  stand 
between  her  and  what  he  could  give  her — and  the  day 
came  when  I  consented  to  see  him.  That  day  was  the 
fifteenth  of  January." 

George  cleared  his  throat  and  O'Mally  stirred  uneas- 
ily in  his  chair.  The  old  man  rumbled  an  encouraging 
"fifteenth  of  January,"  and  she  went  on : 

"She  left  in  the  morning  greatly  excited,  telling  me 
she  would  phone  him  that  she  had  good  news  and  would 
bring  him  home  with  her  that  evening.  She  was  radiant 
with  joy  and  hope  when  I  kissed  her  good-bye.  When 
she  returned  that  night — ^long  after  her  usual  time — all 
that  hope  and  joy  were  dashed  to  the  ground. 

"As  you  know,  she  did  see  him  that  afternoon  and 
told  him  of  my  consent.  He  appeared  overjoyed  and 
said  he  would  come,  but  first  must  go  to  Mr.  Harland's 
offices  on  the  floor  above  to  talk  over  a  matter  of  great 
importance.  This,  he  said,  would  probably  occupy  half 
to  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  after  which  he  would  re- 
turn to  her.  As  they  wished  to  avoid  all  possibility  of 
gossip  through  her  clerks  or  the  people  in  the  building, 
they  decided  not  to  meet  in  her  offices,  but  in  the  church 
which  is  next  door.  From  there  they  would  take  a  cab 
and  come  to  me. 

"The  appointment  was  for  a  quarter-past  six.  Carol 
g64s 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


was  ahead  of  time  and  waited  for  him  over  an  hour,  then 
came  home,  shattered,  broken,  almost  unable  to  speak — 
for,  as  you  know,  he  never  came." 

She  paused,  her  face  tragic  with  the  memory  of  that 
last,  unexpected  blow.  No  one  spoke,  and  looking 
round  at  them,  she  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  pleading  appeal : 

"What  could  I  think?  Was  it  unnatural  for  me  to 
disbelieve  him  again.?  Hasn't  all  that's  come  out 
shown  he  was  what  I'd  already  found  him — false  to  his 
word  and  his  trust.?" 

"Does  your  daughter  think  that,  too.?"  asked  the 
chief. 

"No.  She  believes  in  him,  even  now,  with  him  in  hid- 
ing and  branded  as  a  traitor.  But  that's  Carol — al- 
ways ready  to  trust  where  her  heart  is.  She  says  it's 
all  right,  that  he'll  come  back  and  clear  himself,  but  I 
can  see  how  she's  suffering,  how  she's  struggling  to 
keep  her  hopes  alive." 

I  burst  out — wild  horses  couldn't  have  kept  me  quiet 
any  longer.  Reaching  a  long  arm  across  the  table,  with- 
out any  consciousness  that  I  was  doing  it,  I  laid  my 
hand  on  Mrs.  Whitehall's: 

"How  did  she  get  out  of  the  building  that  night  ?" 

She  looked  surprised,  and  strangely  enough  embar- 
rassed. 

265 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Why — why — "  she  stammered,  and  then  suddenly, 
**you  seem  to  know  so  much  here — do  you  know  any- 
thing about  Mr.  Harland  and  Carol?" 

"Something,"  said  the  chief  guardedly. 

"Everything,"  I  shot  out,  not  caring  for  her,  or  him, 
or  the  case,  or  anything  but  the  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion. 

"Then  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  though  Carol 
wouldn't  like  it."  She  glanced  tentatively  at  me.  "Did 
you  know  he  was  in  love  with  her .?" 

"All  about  it.    Yes.    Go  on—" 

"She  went  down  by  the  stairs,  all  those  flights,  to 
avoid  him.  I  guessed  the  way  he  felt  about  her.  I  knew 
it  soon  after  the  business  was  started  and  told  her  but 
she  only  laughed  at  me.  That  afternoon,  when  he  came 
to  her  office,  she  saw  I  was  right.  Not  that  he  said  any- 
thing definite,  but  by  his  manner,  the  questions  he  asked 
her.  He  was  wrought  up  and  desperate,  I  suppose,  and 
let  her  see  that  he  was  jealous  of  Mr.  Barker,  demand- 
ing the  truth,  whether  she  loved  him,  whether  she  in- 
tended marrying  him.  She  was  angry,  but  seeing  that 
he  had  lost  control  of  himself,  told  him  that  her  feeling 
for  Mr.  Barker  was  that  of  a  daughter  to  a  father  and 
never  would  be  anything  else.  That  seemed  to  quiet 
him  and  he  went  away. 

"When  she  was  leaving  her  offices  she  heard  foot- 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


steps  on  the  floor  above  and  looking  up  saw  him  through 
the  balustrade  walking  to  the  stair  head.  She  at  once 
thought  he  was  coming  to  see  her  and  not  wanting  any 
more  conversation  with  him,  stole  out  and  down  the  hall 
to  the  side  corridor,  where  the  service  stairs  are.  Her 
intention  was  to  pick  up  the  elevator  on  the  floor  below, 
but  on  second  thoughts  she  gave  this  up  and  walked  the 
whole  way.  Finding  her  gone  he  would  probably  take 
the  elevator  himself  and  they  might  meet  in  the  car  or 
the  entrance  hall.  Of  course  we  know  now  she  was  all 
wrong.  It  was  not  to  see  her  he  was  coming  down,  it 
was  to  make  up  his  mind  to  die." 

My  actions  must  have  surprised  them.  For  without 
a  word  to  Mrs.  Whitehall  I  jumped  up  and  left  the  room 
— I  couldn't  trust  myself  to  speak,  I  had  to  be  alone. 
In  my  own  office  I  shut  the  door  and  stood  looking  with 
eyes  that  saw  nothing  out  of  the  window,  over  the  roofs 
to  where  the  waters  of  the  bay  glittered  in  the  sun. 
Have  you  ever  felt  a  relief  so  great  it  made  you  shaky.'' 
Probably  not — but  wait  till  you're  in  the  position  I  was. 
The  room  rocked,  the  distance  was  a  golden  blue  as  I 
whispered  with  lips  that  were  stiff*  and  dry : 

"Thank  God !    Oh,  thank  God !    Oh,  thank  God !" 
I  don't  know  how  long  a  time  passed — maybe  an  hour, 
maybe  five  minutes — ^when  the  door  opened  and  George's 
head  was  thrust  in : 

^67 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"What  are  jou  doing  shut  in  here?  Get  a  move  on 
— we  want  you.    The  telephone  returns  have  come." 

I  followed  him  back.  Mrs.  Whitehall  was  not  there — 
the  chief  and  O'Mally  had  their  heads  together  over  a 
slip  of  paper. 

"Here  you,  Jack,"  said  the  old  man  turning  sharply 
on  me.  "You've  got  to  go  out  tonight  with  O'Mally. 
They're  in  Quebec." 

He  handed  me  the  slip  of  paper.  On  it  was  one  mem- 
orandum. The  night  before  at  12.05  New  York,  Lenox 
1360  had  called  up  Quebec,  St.  Foy  584. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

THAT  night  Babbitts,  O'Mally  and  I  left  for 
Quebec.  Before  we  went  the  wires  that  con- 
nected us  with  the  Canadian  city  had  been 
busy.  St.  Foy  584  had  been  located,  a  house  on  a  sub- 
urban road,  occupied  for  the  last  two  weeks  by  an  Amer- 
ican called  Henry  Santley.  Instructions  were  carried 
over  the  hundreds  of  intervening  miles  to  surround  the 
house,  to  apprehend  Santley  if  he  tried  to  get  away,  and 
to  watch  for  the  lady  who  would  join  him  that  night. 
Unless  something  unforeseen  and  unimaginable  should 
occur  we  had  Barker  at  last. 

As  we  rushed  through  the  darkness,  we  speculated  on 
the  reasons  for  his  last  daring  move — the  sending  for  his 
daughter.  O'Mally  figured  it  out  as  the  result  of  a 
growing  confidence — he  was  feeling  secure  and  wanted 
to  help  her.  He  had  had  ample  proof  of  her  discretion 
and  had  probably  some  plan  for  her  enrichment  that  he 
wanted  to  communicate  to  her  in  person.  I  was  of  the 
opinion  that  he  expected  to  leave  the  country  and  in- 
tended to  take  her  with  him,  sending  back  later  for  the 

269 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


mother.  He  was  assured  of  her  trust  and  affection, 
knew  she  believed  in  him,  and  was  certain  the  murder 
hadn't  been  and  now  never  would  be  discovered.  He 
could  count  on  safety  in  Europe  and  with  his  vast  gains 
could  settle  down  with  his  wife  and  his  daughter  to  a 
life  of  splendid  ease.  Well,  we'd  see  to  that.  The  best 
laid  schemes  of  mice  and  men ! 

The  sun  was  bright,  the  sky  sapphire  clear  as  the 
great  rock  of  Quebec,  crowned  with  its  fortress  roofs, 
came  into  view.  The  two  rivers  clasped  its  base,  ice- 
banded  at  the  shore  and  in  the  middle  their  dark  cur- 
rents flowing  free.  Snow  and  snow  and  snow  heaved 
and  billowed  on  the  surrounding  hills,  paved  the  narrow 
streets,  hooded  the  roofs  of  the  ancient  houses. 
Through  the  air,  razor-edged  with  cold  and  crystal 
clear,  came  the  thin  broken  music  of  sleigh  bells,  ring- 
ing up  from  every  lane  and  alley,  jubilant  and  inspiring, 
and  the  sleighs,  low  running,  flew  by  with  the  wave  of 
their  streaming  furs  and  the  flash  of  scarlet  standards. 

Glorious,  splendid,  a  fit  day,  all  sun  and  color  and 
music,  for  me  to  come  to  Carol ! 

A  man  met  us  at  the  depot,  a  silent,  wooden-faced 
policeman  of  some  kind,  who  said  yes,  he  thought  the 
lady  was  there,  and  then  piloted  us  glumly  into  a  sleigh 
and  mounted  beside  the  driver.  A  continuous,  vague 
current  of  sound  came  from  Babbitts  and  O'Mally  as 

270 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


we  climbed  a  steep  hill  with  the  Frontenac's  pinnacled 
towers  looming  above  us  and  then  shot  off  down  narrow 
streets  where  the  jingle  of  the  bells  was  flung  back  and 
across,  echoing  and  reverberating  between  the  old  stone 
houses.  It  made  me  think  of  a  phrase  the  boys  in  the 
office  used,  *'coming  with  bells  !" 

We  went  some  distance  through  the  town  and  out 
along  a  road,  where  the  buildings  drew  apart  from  one 
another,  viUas  and  suburban  houses  behind  walls  and 
gardens.  At  a  smaller  one,  set  back  in  a  muffling  of 
whitened  shrubberies,  the  sleigh  drew  in  toward  the  side- 
walk. Before  the  others  could  disentangle  themselves 
from  the  furs  and  robes,  I  was  out  and  racing  up  the 
path. 

My  eyes,  ranging  hungrily  over  the  house,  thinking 
perhaps  to  see  her  at  one  of  the  windows,  saw  in  it  some- 
thing ominous  and  secretive.  There  was  not  a  sign  of 
life,  every  pane  darkened  with  a  lowered  blind.  All 
about  it  the  snow  was  heaped  and  curled  in  wave-like 
forms  as  if  endeavoring  to  creep  over  it,  to  aid  in  the 
work  of  hiding  its  dark  mystery.  Barker's  lair,  his  last 
stand !  It  looked  like  it,  white  wrapped,  silent,  inscrut- 
able. 

As  I  leaped  up  the  piazza  steps  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  man  in  uniform.  He  touched  his  hat  and  started 
to  speak,  but  I  pushed  him  aside  and  came  in  peering 

ni 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


past  him  down  a  hall  that  stretched  away  to  the  rear. 
At  the  sound  of  his  voice  a  door  had  opened  there  and  a 
woman  came  out.  For  a  moment  she  was  only  a  shadow 
moving  toward  me  up  the  dimness  of  the  half-lit  pas- 
sage. Then  I  recognized  her,  gave  a  cry  and  ran  to  her. 

My  hands  found  hers  and  closed  on  them,  my  eyes 
looking  down  into  the  dark  ones  raised  to  them.  Neither 
of  us  spoke,  it  didn't  occur  to  me  to  explain  why  I  was 
there  and  she  showed  no  surprise  at  seeing  me.  It 
seemed  as  if  we'd  known  all  along  we  were  going  to  meet 
in  that  dark  passage  in  that  strange  house.  And  stand- 
ing there  silent,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  I  saw  something 
so  wonderful,  so  unexpected,  that  the  surroundings  fad- 
ed away  and  for  me  there  was  nothing  in  the  world  but 
what  I  read  in  her  beautiful,  lifted  face. 

I  never  had  dared  to  hope,  never  had  thought  of  her 
as  caring  for  me.  All  I  had  asked  was  the  right  to  help 
and  defend  her.  Perhaps  under  different  circumstances, 
when  things  were  happy  and  easy,  I'd  have  aspired,  gone 
in  to  try  and  win.  But  in  the  last  dark  month,  when 
we'd  come  so  close,  we'd  only  been  a  woman  set  upon  and 
menaced,  and  a  man  braced  and  steeled  to  do  battle 
for  her.  Now,  with  her  stone-cold  hands  in  mine,  I  saw 
in  the  shining  depths  of  her  eyes — Oh,  no,  it's  too  sa- 
cred.   That  part  of  the  story  is  between  Carol  and  me. 

There  had  been  sounds  and  voices  in  the  vestibule  be- 
272 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


hind  us.  They  came  vaguely  upon  my  consciousness, 
low  and  then  breaking  suddenly  into  a  louder  key, 
phrases,  exclamations,  questions.  I  don't  think  if  the 
house  had  been  rocked  by  an  earthquake  I'd  have  no- 
ticed it,  and  it  wasn't  till  O'Mally  came  down  the  pass- 
age calling  me,  that  I  dropped  her  hands  and  turned. 
His  face  was  creased  into  an  expression  of  excited  con- 
sternation, and  he  rapped  out,  not  seeing  Carol : 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  there  .^  Haven't  you 
heard  .^"  Then  his  eye  catching  her,  "Oh,  it's  Miss 
Whitehall.  Well,  young  lady,  you  must  have  had  a 
pretty  tough  time  here  last  night." 

She  simply  drooped  her  eyelids  in  faint  agreement. 

"What  do  you  mean.?"  I  cried,  and  looked  from 
O'Mally's  boisterously  concerned  countenance  to  Car- 
ol's worn,  white  one.    "What  is  it,  something  more?" 

She  gave  a  slight  nod  and  said: 

"The  last— the  end  this  time." 

O'Mally  wheeled  on  me: 

"She  hasn't  told  you.  He  shot  himself — ^here,  last 
night,  shortly  after  she  arrived." 

Before  I  had  time  to  answer.  Babbits  and  the  man  in 
uniform,  a  police  inspector,  were  beside  us.  Babbitts 
was  speechless — as  I  was  myself — but  the  inspector, 
pompous  and  stolid,  answered  my  look  of  shocked 
amazement : 

273 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"A  few  minutes  after  one.  Fortunately  I'd  got  your 
instructions  and  the  house  was  surrounded.  My  men 
heard  the  report  and  the  screams  and  broke  in  at 
once." 

I  looked  blankly  from  one  to  the  other.  There  was  a 
confused  horror  in  my  mind,  but  from  the  confusion 
one  thought  rose  clear — Barker  had  done  the  best,  the 
only  thing. 

The  inspector,  ostentatiously  cool  in  the  midst  of  our 
aghast  concern,  volunteered  further: 

"He  didn't  die  till  near  morning  and  we  got  a  full 
statement  out  of  him.  For  an  hour  afterward  he  was 
as  clear  as  a  bell — they  are  that  way  sometimes — and 
gave  us  all  the  particulars,  seemed  to  want  to.  I've  got 
it  upstairs  and  from  what  I  can  make  out  he  was  one 
of  the  sharpest,  most  daring  criminals  I  ever  ran  up 
against.  I've  had  the  body  kept  here  for  your  identi- 
fication.   Will  you  come  up  and  see  it  now?" 

He  moved  off  toward  the  stairs.  O'Mally  and  Bab- 
bitts, muttering  together,  filing  after  him.  I  didn't  go 
but  turned  to  Carol,  who  had  thrust  one  hand  through 
the  balustrade  that  ran  up  beside  where  we  were  stand- 
ing. As  the  tramp  of  ascending  feet  sounded  on  the 
first  steps,  she  leaned  toward  me,  her  voice  hardly  more 
than  a  whisper: 

"Do  you  know  who  it  is?" 
^74j 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery^ 


"Who  what  is  ?"  I  said,  startled  by  her  words  and  ex- 
pression. 

*'The  man  upstairs  ?" 

I  was  terror-stricken — the  experiences  of  the  night 
had  unhinged  her  mind.  I  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but 
she  drew  it  back,  her  lips  forming  words  just  loud 
enough  for  me  to  hear: 

"You  don't.    It's  Rollings  Harland." 

"Carol !"  I  cried,  certain  now  she  was  unbalanced. 

She  drew  farther  away  from  me  and  slipping  her  hand 
from  the  balustrade  pointed  up  the  stairs : 

"Go  and  see.  It's  he.  There's  nothing  the  matter 
with  me,  but  I  want  you  to  see  for  yourself.  Go  and 
see  and  then  come  back  here  and  I'll  tell  you.  I  know 
everything  now." 

I  went,  a  wild  rush  up  the  stairs.  In  a  room  off  the 
upper  hall,  the  light  tempered  by  drawn  blinds,  were 
O'Mally,  Babbitts  and  the  inspector,  looking  at  the 
dead  body  of  Rollings  Harland. 


CHAPTER  XX 

JACK   TELLS   THE   STORY 

WHEN  I  came  down  she  was  waiting  for  me. 
With  a  finger  against  her  lips  in  a  com- 
mand for  silence,  she  turned  and  went 
along  the  passage  to  the  door  from  which  I  had  seen  her 
enter.  I  followed  her  and  catching  up  with  her  as  she 
placed  her  hand  on  the  knob,  burst  out : 

"What  is  it — ^what  does  it  mean?  Where's  Barker? 
In  the  name  of  Heaven  tell  me  quickly  what  has  hap- 
pened ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  here,"  she  said  softly,  and  opening 
the  door  preceded  me  into  the  room. 

It  was  evidently  the  dining-room  of  the  house,  a 
round  table  standing  in  the  center,  a  sideboard  with 
glass  and  china  on  it  against  the  wall.  A  coal  fire 
burned  in  the  grate,  and  the  blinds  were  raised  showing 
the  dazzling  glitter  of  the  snow  outside.  It  was  warm 
and  bright,  the  one  place  in  that  sinister  house  that 
seemed  to  have  a  human  note  about  it.  She  passed 
round  the  table  to  the  fire  and,  standing  there,  made  a 
gesture  that  swept  the  walls  and  unveiled  windows : 

276 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Last  night  in  this  room  I  at  last  understood  the 
tragedy  in  which  we've  all  been  involved." 

I  stood  like  a  post,  still  too  bemused  to  have  any 
questions  ready.  There  were  too  many  to  ask.  It  was 
like  a  skein  so  tangled  there  was  no  loose  thread  to 
start  with. 

"Did  you  know  Harland  was  here  when  you  came.?" 
was  what  I  finally  said. 

She  nodded: 

"I  suspected  it  on  Sunday  afternoon.  I  was  certain 
of  it  on  Sunday  night  before  I  left  New  York."  She 
dropped  into  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  pointed  me  to  one 
near-by  at  the  table.  "Sit  down  and  let  me  tell  it  to 
you  as  it  happened  to  me,  my  side  of  it.  When  you've 
heard  that,  you  can  read  the  statement  he  gave,  then 
you'll  see  it  all.  Straight  from  its  beginning  to  its  aw- 
ful end  here  last  night." 

Before  she  began  I  told  her  of  our  interview  with  Mrs. 
Whitehall  and  that  we  knew  her  true  relationship  to 
Barker. 

She  seemed  relieved  and  asked  if  her  mother  had  also 
told  us  of  her  position  with  regard  to  Harland.  When 
she  saw  how  fuUy  we'd  been  informed  she  gave  a  deep 
sigh  and  said : 

"Now  you  can  understand  why  I  prevaricated  that 
day  in  Mr.  Whitney's  office.    I  was  trying  to  shield  my 

877 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


father,  to  help  him  any  way  I  could.  Oh,  if  I'd  known 
the  truth  then  or  you  had — the  truth  you  don't  know 
even  yet !  It  was  Johnston  Barker  that  was  murdered 
and  HoUings  Harland  who  murdered  him !" 

I  started  forward,  but  she  raised  a  silencing  hand, 
her  voice  shaken  and  pleading : 

"Don't,  please,  say  anything.  Let  me  go  on  in  my  own 
way.  It's  so  hard  to  tell."  She  dropped  the  hand  to 
its  fellow  and  holding  them  tight-clenched  in  her  lap, 
said  slowly :  "If  my  mother  told  you  of  that  conversa- 
tion I  had  with  Mr.  Harland  you  know  what  I  discov- 
ered then — that  he  loved  me.  I  never  suspected  it  be- 
fore, but  when  he  pressed  me  with  questions  about  John- 
ston Barker,  so  unlike  himself,  vehement  and  excited,  I 
understood  and  was  sorry  for  him.  I  told  him  as  much 
as  I  could  then,  explained  my  feeling  for  the  man  he  was 
jealous  of  without  telling  my  relationship,  said  how  I 
respected  and  trusted  him,  what  any  girl  might  say  of 
her  father.  He  seemed  relieved  but  went  on  to  ask  if 
Mr.  Barker  and  I  were  not  interested  in  some  scheme, 
some  undertaking  of  a  secret  nature.  That  frightened 
me,  it  sounded  as  if  he  had  found  out  about  us,  had  been 
told  something  by  someone.  Taken  by  surprise,  I  an- 
swered with  a  half  truth,  that  Mr.  Barker  had  a  plan  on 
foot  for  my  welfare,  that  he  wanted  to  help  me  and  my 
mother  to  a  better  financial  position,  but  that  I  was  not 

878 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


yet  at  liberty  to  tell  what  it  was.  I  saw  he  thought  I 
meant  business,  and  as  I  go  on,  you'll  see  how  that  in- 
formation gave  him  the  confidence  to  do  what  he  did 
later. 

'*I  know  now  that  the  Whitney  office  discovered  I  had 
had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Barker  mailed  from  Toronto  ask- 
ing me  to  join  him  there  and  that  I  agreed  to  do  so  in  a 
phone  message  that  same  day.  That  letter,  directed  to 
my  office,  was  in  typewriting  and  was  signed  with  my 
father's  initials.  It  was  short,  merely  telling  me  that^ 
there  was  a  reason  for  his  disappearance  which  he  would 
explain  to  me,  that  his  whereabouts  must  be  kept  secret, 
and  that  he  wanted  me  to  come  to  him  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  a  new  business  venture  in  which  he  hoped  to 
set  me  up.  As  you  know  I  attempted  to  do  what  he 
asked,  and  was  followed  by  two  men  from  the  Whitney 
office." 

"How  do  you  know  all  this  ?"  I  couldn't  help  butting 
in. 

She  gave  a  slight  smile,  the  first  I  had  seen  on  her 
face: 

"I'll  tell  you  that  later — ^it's  not  the  least  curious 
part  of  my  story.  Realizing  by  the  papers  that  there 
was  a  general  hue  and  cry  for  him  I  was  very  cautious, 
much  more  so  than  your  detectives  thought.  I  saw 
them,  decided  the  move  was  too  dangerous,  and  came 

279 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


back.  At  that  time,  and  for  some  time  afterward,  I  be- 
lieved that  letter  was  from  mj  father." 

"Wasn't  it?" 

She  shook  her  head ; 

"No — but  wait.  I  had  no  other  letter  and  no  other 
communication  of  any  sort.  I  searched  the  papers  for 
any  news  of  him,  thinking  he  might  put  something  for 
me  in  the  personal  columns,  but  there  was  not  a  sign. 
Days  passed  that  way,  my  business  was  closed  and  I  had 
time  to  think,  and  the  more  I  thought  the  more  strange 
and  inexplicable  it  seemed.  Why,  in  the  letter,  had  he 
made  no  reference  to  the  broken  engagement,  so  vital  to 
both  of  us,  that  night  in  the  church.  Why  had  he  said 
nothing  about  my  mother  whose  state  of  mind  he  would 
have  guessed? 

"From  the  first  I  had  suspicions  that  something  was 
wrong.  I  could  not  believe  he  would  have  done  what 
they  said  he  had.  Even  after  I  read  in  the  papers  of  his 
carefully  planned  getaway  I  was  not  convinced.  After 
that  scene  in  the  Whitney  office,  when  I  saw  you  were 
all  watching  me,  eager  to  trip  me  into  any  admission, 
my  suspicions  grew  stronger.  There  was  more  than 
showed  on  the  surface.  I  sensed  it,  an  instinct  warned 
me. 

"As  days  passed  and  I  heard  nothing  more  from  him, 
the  conviction  grew  that  something  had  happened  to 

^80 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


him.  If  it  was  accident  I  was  certain  it  would  have  been 
known ;  if,  as  many  thought,  he'd  lost  his  memory  and 
strayed  away,  I  was  equally  certain  he'd  have  been 
seen  and  recognized.  What  else  could  it  be?  Can  you 
picture  me,  shut  up  with  my  po,or  distracted  mother, 
ravaged  by  fear  and  anxiety?  Those  waiting  days 
— how  terrible  they  were — with  that  sense  of  dread  al- 
ways growing,  growing.  Finally  it  came  to  a  climax. 
If  my  father  was  dead  as  I  thought,  there  was  only  one 
explanation — foul  play.  On  Friday,  when  you  came  to 
see  me,  I  was  at  the  breaking  point,  afraid  to  speak, 
desperate  for  help  and  unable  to  ask  for  it. 

"Now  I  come  to  the  day  when  I  learned  everything, 
when  all  these  broken  forebodings  of  disaster  fell  to- 
gether like  the  bits  of  glass  in  a  kaleidoscope  and  took 
a  definite  shape.  It  was  Sunday,  can  it  be  only  two 
days  ago  ?  My  mother  had  moved  to  the  cottage  and  I 
was  alone  in  the  apartment  packing  up  to  follow  her. 
About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  while  I  was  hard  at 
work  the  telephone  rang.  I  answered  it  and  was  told 
by  the  operator  Long  Distance  was  calling  me,  Quebec. 
At  that  my  heart  gave  a  great  jump  of  joy  and  relief — 
my  father  was  alive  and  sending  for  me  again.  It  was 
like  the  wireless  answer  of  help  to  a  foundering  vessel. 

"You  know  how  often  the  Long  Distance  connection 
varies — one  day  you  can  recognize  a  voice  a  thousand 

281 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


miles  off  that  on  the  next  you  can't  make  out  at  a  hun- 
dred? The  voice  that  had  spoken  to  me  from  Toronto 
was  no  more  than  a  vibration  of  the  wire,  thin  and  tone- 
less. The  one  that  spoke  from  Quebec  was  distinct  and 
colored  with  a  personality. 

"The  first  words  were  that  it  was  J.  W.  B.  and  at 
these  words,  as  if  the  receiver  had  shot  an  electric  cur- 
rent into  me,  I  started  and  grew  tense,  for  it  did  not 
sound  like  the  voice  of  J.W.B.  It  went  on,  explaining 
why  he  had  not  communicated  with  me,  and  how  he  now 
again  wanted  me  to  come  to  him.  I,  listening,  became 
more  and  more  sure  that  the  person  speaking  was  not 
my  father,  but  that,  whoever  he  was,  his  voice  stirred  a 
faint  memory,  was  dimly  suggestive  of  a  voice  I  did 
know. 

**I  was  confused  and  agitated,  standing  there  with 
the  receiver  at  my  ear,  while  those  sentences  ran  over 
the  wire,  every  syllable  clear  and  distinct.  Then,  sud- 
denly, I  thought  of  a  way  I  could  find  out.  My  father 
was  the  only  man  in  the  world  who  knew  of  our  secret, 
of  the  plan  for  our  reunion.  A  simple  question  would 
test  the  knowledge  of  the  person  talking  to  me.  When 
he  had  finished  I  said : 

*'  'I've  been  longing  to  hear  from  you,  not  only  for 
myself  but  for  my  mother — she's  been  in  despair.' 

"There  was  a  slight  pause  before  the  voice  answered : 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"  'Why  should  Mrs.  Whitehall  be  so  disturbed?' 
"Then  I  knew  it  wasn't  Johnston  Barker.  The  rea- 
son for  Mrs.  Whitehall's  disturbance  was  as  well  known 
to  him  as  it  was  to  me.  Besides  in  our  talks  together  he 
had  never  alluded  to  her  as  'Mrs.  Whitehall'  but  al- 
ways as  *your  mother'  or  by  her  Christian  name,  Serena. 
"I  said  the  mystery  of  his  disappearance  had  upset 
her,  she  was  afraid  something  had  happened  to  him.  A 
faint  laugh — with  again  that  curiously  familiar  echo  in 
it — came  along  the  wire : 

"  'You  can  set  her  mind  at  rest  after  you've  seen  me.' 
*'There  was  something  ghastly  about  it — talking  to 
this  unknown  being,  listening  to  that  whispering  voice 
that  called  me  to  come  and  wasn't  the  voice  I  knew.  It 
was  like  an  evil  spirit,  close  to  me  but  invisible,  and  that 
I  had  no  power  to  lay  hold  of. 

"While  I  was  thinking  this  he  was  telling  me  that  he 
had  a  safe  hiding  place  and  that  I  must  j  oin  him  at  once, 
the  plans  were  now  perfected  for  the  new  enterprise  in 
which  he  was  to  launch  me.  I  demurred  and  to  gain 
time  told  him  how  I'd  tried  to  go  before  and  been  fol- 
lowed. That  caught  his  attention  at  once,  his  questions 
came  quick  and  eager.  Perhaps  before  that  he  had  tried 
to  disguise  his  voice,  anyway  now  the  familiar  note  in 
it  grew  stronger.  I  began  to  catch  at  something — in- 
flexions, accent — till  suddenly,  like  a  runner  who  rounds 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


a  corner  and  sees  his  goal  unexpectedly  before  him,  my 
memory  saw  a  name — Harland ! 

*'I  was  so  amazed,  so  staggered  that  for  a  moment  I 
couldn't  speak.  The  voice  brought  me  back,  saying 
sharply,  *Are  you  there  ?'  I  stammered  a  reply  and  said 
I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  come.  He  urged,  but  I 
wouldn't  promise,  till  at  length,  feeling  I  might  betray 
myself,  I  said  I'd  think  it  over  and  let  him  know  later. 
He  had  to  be  satisfied  with  that  and  gave  me  his  tele- 
phone number  telling  me  to  call  him  up  as  soon  as  I 
decided. 

"What  did  I  feel  as  I  sat  alone  in  that  dismantled 
place .f*  Can  you  realize  the  state  of  my  thoughts? 
What  did  it  mean — what  was  going  on.'^  The  man  was 
not  Johnston  Barker,  but  how  could  he  be  Harland,  who 
was  dead  and  buried  ?  Ah,  if  you  had  come  then  instead 
of  Friday  I'd  have  told  you  for  I  was  in  waters  too  deep 
for  me.  All  that  I  could  grasp  was  that  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  something  incomprehensible  and  terrible,  from 
the  darkness  of  which  one  thought  stood  out — my 
father  had  never  sent  for  me,  I  had  never  heard  from 
him — it  had  been  this  other  man  all  along!  I  was  then 
as  certain  as  if  his  spirit  had  appeared  before  me  that 
Johnston  Barker  was  dead. 

"And  now  I  come  to  one  of  the  strangest  and  finest 
things  that  ever  happened  to  me  in  my  life.    Late  on 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Sunday  night  a  girl — unknown  to  me  and  refusing  to 
give  her  name — came  and  told  me  of  the  murder,  the 
whole  of  it,  the  evidence  against  me,  and  that  I  stood 
in  danger  of  immediate  arrest." 

I  jumped  to  my  feet — I  couldn't  believe  it: 

"A  girl — what  kind  of  a  girl?" 

"Young  and  pretty,  with  dark  brown  eyes  and  brown 
curly  hair.  Oh,  I  can  place  her  for  you.  She  said  she 
had  been  employed  to  help  get  the  information  against 
me  and  my  father,  and  was  the  only  woman  acting  in 
that  capacity." 

"Molly!"  I  gasped,  falling  back  into  my  chair. 
"Molly  Babbitts  !    What  in  Heaven's  name—" 

"You're  right  to  invoke  Heaven's  name,  for  it  was 
Heaven  that  sent  her.  She  wouldn't  tell  me  who  she 
was  or  why  she  came,  but  I  could  see.  What  reason 
could  there  have  been  except  that  she  believed  me  inno- 
cent and  wanted  to  help  me  escape.?" 

For  a  moment  I  couldn't  speak.  I  dropped  my  head 
and  a  silent  oath  went  up  from  me  to  hold  Molly  sacred 
forever  more.  I  could  see  it  all — she'd  found  her  heart, 
realized  the  cruelty  of  what  was  to  be  done,  discovered 
in  some  way  she'd  given  me  wrong  information,  and  done 
the  thing  herself.  The  gallant,  noble  little  soul !  God 
bless  her !    God  bless  her ! 

Carol  went  on : 

285 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"I  wonder  now  what  she  thought  of  me.  I  must  have 
appeared  utterly  extraordinary  to  her.  She  thought  she 
was  telling  me  what  I  already  knew,  or  at  least  knew 
something  of.  But  as  I  sat  there  listening  to  her  I  was 
piecing  together  in  my  mind  what  she  was  saying  with 
what  I  myself  had  found  out.  I  was  building  up  a  com- 
plete story,  fitting  new  and  old  together,  and  it  held 
me  dumb,  motionless,  as  if  I  didn't  care.  It  would  take 
too  long  to  tell  you  how  I  got  at  the  main  facts — the 
smaller  points  I  didn't  think  of.  It  was  as  if  what  she 
said  and  what  I  knew  jumped  toward  each  other  like 
the  flame  and  the  igniting  gas,  connecting  the  broken 
bits  into  a  continuous  line  of  fire.  I  knew  that  murder 
had  been  committed.  I  knew  that  the  body  was  unrec- 
ognizable. I  knew  that  had  my  father  been  living  I 
would  have  heard  from  him.  I  knew  that  the  voice  on 
the  phone  was  Harland's.  Without  all  the  details  she 
gave  me  it  would  have  been  enough.  Before  she  had  fin- 
ished my  mind  had  grasped  the  truth.  It  was  Johnston 
Barker  who  had  been  murdered  and  Harland — trying 
now  to  draw  me  to  him — was  the  murderer. 

"Do  you  guess  what  a  flame  of  rage  burst  up  in  me 
— ^what  a  passion  to  trap  and  bring  to  justice  the  man 
who  could  conceive  and  execute  such  a  devilish  thing? 
I  could  hardly  wait  to  go.  I  was  too  wrought  up  to 
think  out  a  reasonable  course.     Looking  back  on  it  to- 

^86 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


day  it  seems  like  an  act  of  madness,  but  I  suppose  a 
person  in  that  state  is  half  mad.  I  never  thought  of 
getting  anybody  to  go  with  me,  of  applying  to  the 
police.  I  only  saw  myself  finding  Harland  and  accusing 
him.  It's  inconceivable — the  irrational  action  of  a 
woman  beside  herself  with  grief  and  fury. 

"I  called  up  the  number  he'd  given  me  and  told  him 
I  was  coming  on  the  first  train  I  could  catch.  He  told 
me  at  what  hour  that  morning  it  would  leave  New  York 
and  when  it  would  reach  Quebec.  He  said  he  would 
send  his  servant,  a  French  woman,  to  meet  me  at  the 
depot  as  he  didn't  like  to  risk  going  himself.  Then  I 
left  the  house  and  went  to  the  Grand  Central  Station, 
where  I  sat  in  the  women's  waiting  room  for  the  rest  of 
the  night. 

"I  did  not  get  to  Quebec  till  after  midnight.  The 
servant  met  me,  put  me  in  a  sleigh  that  was  waiting  for 
us,  and  together  we  drove  here. 

"The  house  was  lit  up,  every  lower  window  bright. 
As  we  walked  up  the  path  from  the  gate  I  saw  a  man 
moving  behind  the  shrubbery  and  called  her  attention 
to  him.  While  she  was  opening  the  door  with  her  key 
I  noticed  another  loitering  along  the  footpath  by  the 
gate,  obviously  watching  us.  This  time  I  asked  her 
why  there  should  be  men  about  at  such  an  hour  and  on 
such   a   freezing   night.      She    seemed   bewildered   and 

£8T 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


frightened,  muttering  something  in  French  about  hav- 
ing noticed  them  when  she  went  out.  In  the  hallway 
she  directed  me  to  a  room  on  the  upper  floor,  telling  me, 
when  I  was  ready,  to  go  down  to  the  dining-room  where 
supper  was  waiting. 

"I  went  upstairs  and  she  followed,  showing  me  where 
I  was  to  go  and  then  walking  down  the  passage  to  an- 
other room.  As  I  took  oif  my  wraps  and  hat  I  could 
hear  her  voice,  loud  and  excited,  telling  someone  of  the 
two  men  we  had  seen.  Another  voice  answered  it — a 
man's — but  pitched  too  low  for  me  to  make  out  the 
words. 

"When  I  was  ready  I  went  downstairs  and  into  the 
room.  No  one  was  about,  there  was  not  a  sound.  The 
fire  was  burning  as  it  is  now,  the  curtains  drawn,  and 
the  table,  set  out  with  a  supper,  was  brightly  lit  with 
candles  and  decorated  with  flowers.  I  stood  here  by 
the  fire  waiting,  white,  I  suppose,  as  the  tablecloth,  for 
I  was  at  the  highest  climax  of  excitement  a  human  being 
can  reach  and  keep  her  senses. 

"Suddenly  I  heard  steps  on  the  stairs.  I  turned  and 
made  ready,  moistening  my  lips  which  were  stiffs  and  felt 
like  leather.  The  steps  came  down  the  passage — the 
door  opened.     There  he  was ! 

"That  first  second,  when  he  entered  as  the  lover  and 
conqueror,  he  looked  splendid.     The  worn  and  harassed 

^88 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


air  he  had  the  last  time  I'd  seen  him  was  gone.  He  was 
at  the  highest  pinnacle  of  his  life,  'the  very  butt  and 
sea  mark  of  his  sail,'  and  it  was  as  if  his  spirit  recog- 
nized it  and  flashed  up  in  a  last  illuminating  glow  of  fire 
and  force. 

"He  was  prepared  for  amazement,  horror,  probably 
fear  from  me.  The  first  shock  he  received  was  my  face, 
showing  none  of  these,  quiet,  and,  I  suppose,  fierce  with 
the  hatred  I  felt.  He  stopped  dead  in  the  doorway,  the 
confidence  stricken  out  of  him — just  staring.  Then 
he  stammered: 

"  'Carol — you — you — ' 

"He  was  too  astounded  to  say  any  more.  I  finished 
for  him,  my  voice  low  and  hoarse : 

"  'You  think  I  didn't  expect  to  see  you.  I  did.  I 
knew  you  were  here — I  came  to  find  you.  I  came  to  tell 
you  that  I  know  how  you  killed  Johnston  Barker.' 

"I  don't  think  anyone  has  ever  said  he  lacked  cour- 
age. He  was  one  of  those  bold  and  ruthless  beings 
that  came  to  their  fullest  flower  during  the  Italian 
Renaissance — terrible  and  tremendous  too.  I've 
thought  of  him  since  as  like  one  of  the  Borgias  or 
lago  transplanted  to  our  country  and  modern  times. 
When  he  saw  that  I  knew  he  went  white,  but  he  stood 
with  the  light  of  the  candles  bright  on  his  ghastly  face, 
straight  and  steady  as  a  soldier  before  the  cannon. 

289 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"  'Johnston  Barker,'  he  said  very  quietly — 'killed 
him?  You  bring  me  interesting  news.  I  didn't  know 
he  was  dead !' 

"As  I've  told  you  I  had  come  without  plans,  with 
no  line  of  action  decided  upon.  Now  the  futility,  the 
blind  rashness  of  what  I  had  done  was  borne  in  upon 
me.  His  stoney  calm,  his  measured  voice,  showed  me 
I  was  pitted  against  an  antagonist  whose  strength  was 
to  mine  as  a  lion's  to  a  mouse.  The  thought  maddened 
me,  I  was  ready  to  say  anything  to  break  him,  to  con- 
quer and  crush  him  and  in  my  desperation — guided  by 
some  flash  of  intuition — I  said  the  right  thing: 

"  *0h,  don't  waste  time  denying  it.  It's  too  late  for 
that  now.  It's  not  I  alone  who  knows — they  know  in 
New  York — everything.  How  you  did  it,  how  you  stole 
away,  and  where  you  are  now.  The  net  is  around  you 
— they've  got  you.  There's  no  use  any  more  in  lies 
and  tricks,  for  you  can't  escape  them.' 

"He  had  listened  without  a  movement  or  a  sign  of 
agitation.  But  when  I  finished  he  straightened  his 
shoulders  and  throwing  up  his  head  sent  a  glance  of 
piercing  question  over  the  curtained  windows.  His 
whole  being  suggested  something  arrested  and  fiercely 
alert,  not  fear,  but  a  wild  concentration  of  energy, 
as  if  all  his  forces  were  aroused  to  meet  a  desperate 
call. 

290 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Then  suddenly  he  made  a  step  forward,  leaned 
across  the  table  and  spoke.  I  can't  tell  you  all  he  said. 
It  was  so  horrible  and  his  face — it  was  like  a  demon's 
in  its  death  throes !  But  it  was  about  his  love  for  me — 
that  he'd  done  it  all  for  me — that  he  could  give  me  more 
than  any  woman  ever  had  before — lay  the  world  at  my 
feet.  And  to  come  with  him — now — we  could  get  away 
— we  had  time  yet.  Oh !"  she  closed  her  eyes  and  shud- 
dered at  the  memory — "I  can't  go  on.  He  knew  it  was 
hopeless,  he  must  have  known  then  what  the  men  out- 
side meant.  It  was  the  last  defiance — the  last  mad 
hope. 

"And  then  I  conquered  him,  not  as  I'd  meant  to  do, 
not  with  any  intention.  All  the  horror  and  loathing  I 
felt  came  out  in  what  I  said.  Terrible  words — how  I 
hated  him — all  that  had  been  locked  up  in  me  since 
I'd  known  the  truth.  His  face  grew  so  dreadful  that  I 
shrank  back  in  this  corner,  and  finally  to  hide  it,  hid  my 
own  in  my  hands. 

"People  do  such  strange  things  in  life,  not  at  all  like 
what  they  do  in  books  and  plays.  When  I  stopped 
speaking  he  said  nothing,  and  dropping  my  hands 
I  looked  at  him,  not  knowing  what  I'd  see.  He  was 
standing  very  quiet,  gazing  straight  in  front  of  him, 
like  a  man  thinking — deeply  thinking,  lost  in 
thought. 

^91 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"We  were  that  way  for  a  moment,  so  still  you  could 
hear  the  clock  ticking,  then,  without  a  word  or  look 
at  me,  he  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"I  was  so  paralyzed  by  the  scene  that  for  a  space 
I  stood  where  he'd  left  me,  squeezed  into  the  angle  be- 
hind the  mantelpiece,  stunned  and  senseless.  Then  the 
sound  of  his  feet  on  the  stairs  called  me  back  to  life. 
He  was  going,  he  was  running  away.  I  did  not  know 
myself  then  who  the  men  outside  were  and  thought  he 
could  easily  make  his  escape. 

"I  ran  out  into  the  hall,  calling  to  the  French  woman. 
She  came,  out  of  a  door  somewhere  in  the  back  part  of 
the  house,  and  I  have  a  queer  impression  of  her  face 
by  the  light  of  a  bracket  lamp,  almost  ludicrous  in  its 
expression  of  fright.  As  I  ran  up  the  stairs  I  screamed 
to  her  to  come,  to  follow  me,  and  heard  her  steps  racing 
along  the  passage  and  her  panting  exclamations  of 
terror.  At  the  stair  head  my  ear  caught  the  snap  of  a 
closing  door  and  the  click  of  a  key  turned  in  a  lock. 
It  came  from  the  darkened  end  of  the  hall  and  as  I 
ran  down  I  cried  to  the  woman,  'Get  someone.  Call. 
Get  help.'  Then  and  there  she  threw  up  a  window  and 
thrusting  out  her  head  screamed  into  the  darkness,  ^Au 
secours!    Au  secoursl* 

"A  man's  voice,  close  under  the  window,  answered  her 
and  she  flew  past  me  to  another  staircase  beyond  in  the 

292 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


darkness  down  which  I  could  hear  her  clattering  rush. 
Then  there  were  the  sound  of  steps,  and  the  breaking  of 
wood,  sharp  tearing  noises  mixed  with  the  shouts  of 
men.  It  all  came  together,  for  as  I  stood  outside  that 
locked  door,  listening  to  the  woman's  cries  and  the 
smashing  of  the  wood  below,  sharp  as  a  flash  came  the 
report  of  a  pistol  from  the  closed  room. 

"That's  all.  I  didn't  see  him  again,  I  couldn't.  The 
police  inspector — they've  all  been  very  kind,  have  done 
everything  for  me  they  could — let  me  see  the  state- 
ment. When  you've  read  that  you'll  know  everything — 
it'll  be  the  last  chapter.  I  can't  tell  it  to  you — it's  more 
than  I  can  bear." 

She  glanced  at  me  and  then  suddenly  looked  away  for 
tears,  quick  and  unexpected,  welled  into  her  eyes.  She 
put  up  one  hand,  pressing  it  against  her  eyelids,  while 
the  other  lay  still  on  the  table.  I  leaned  forward  and 
laid  mine  over  it.  As  she  sat  speechless,  struggling 
with  her  moment  of  weakness,  I  looked  at  the  two  hands 
— mine  big  and  hard  and  brown,  almost  hid  hers,  closing 
round  it,  sheltering  and  guarding  it,  as  my  life,  if  God 
willed  it,  would  close  round  and  shelter  and  guard  hers. 

I  am  coming  to  the  end  of  my  part  of  the  story  and 
it's  only  up  to  me  now  to  give  the  final  explanation — 
furnished  by   Harland's   statement — of  the   strangest 

^93 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


crime  that  had  ever  come  within  the  ken  of  the  Whitney 
office. 

We  all  read  the  statement  that  day  and  that  night 
in  our  sitting-room  at  the  Frontenac,  O'Mally,  Babbitts 
and  I  talked  it  over.  A  good  deal  had  to  be  supple- 
mented by  our  own  inside  information.  For  anyone  who 
had  not  our  fuller  knowledge  there  would  have  been 
many  broken  links  in  the  chain.  But  to  us  it  read  as 
a  clear,  consecutive  sequence  of  events.  One  thing  I 
drew  from  it — almost  as  if  Harland  had  told  me  him- 
self— its  unconscious  revelation  of  the  development  in 
him  of  sinister  possibilities  that  had  lain  dormant  dur- 
ing the  struggle  of  his  early  years.  In  middle  life,  his 
world  conquered,  two  master  passions,  love  of  gain  and 
love  of  a  woman,  had  seized  him,  and  swept  him  to  his 
ruin. 

I  won't  give  it  in  his  words,  but  in  as  plain  and  short 
a  narrative  as  I  can. 

Harland  had  been  the  welcher  in  the  Copper  Pool  and 
Barker  had  suspected  him.  This  was  the  immediate 
cause  of  the  murder.  Back  of  that,  the  root  from  which 
the  whole  intricate  crime  grew,  was  his  love  of  Carol 
Whitehall  and  determination  to  make  her  his  wife. 

Briefly  outlined,  his  position  with  regard  to  her  was 
as  follows.  His  passion  for  her  had  started  with  the 
inauguration  of  the  land  company,  but  while  she  was 

^94« 


TJie  Black  Eagle  Mysier'y 


grateful  and  friendly,  he  soon  saw  that  she  was  nothing 
more.  So  he  kept  his  counsel,  making  no  attempt  by 
word  or  look  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  their  rela- 
tions. But  while  he  maintained  the  pose  of  a  business 
partner  he  studied  her  and  saw  that  she  was  ambitious, 
large  in  her  aims,  and  aspiring.  This  side  of  her  char- 
acter was  the  one  he  decided  to  lay  siege  to.  If  he  could 
not  win  her  heart,  he  would  amass  a  fortune  and  tempt 
her  with  its  vast  possibilities.  His  membership  in  the 
Copper  Pool  gave  him  the  opportunity,  and  he  saw 
himself  able  to  lay  millions  at  her  feet. 

On  January  fifth,  he  met  Barker  on  the  street  and  in 
the  course  of  a  short  conversation  learned  that  the  head 
of  the  pool  suspected  his  treachery.  That  half-ex- 
pressed suspicion,  with  its  veiled  hint  of  publicity, 
planted  the  seed  of  murder  in  his  mind. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  two  days  later  that  the  seed 
sprouted.  How  his  idea  came  to  him  indicated  the  con- 
dition of  morbidly  acute  perception  and  wild  reckless- 
ness he  had  reached.  Walking  up  Fifth  Avenue  after 
dark  he  had  seen  a  man  standing  under  a  lamp,  lighting 
a  pipe.  The  man,  Joseph  Sammis,  was  so  like  Barker, 
that  he  moved  nearer  to  address  him.  A  closer  view 
showed  him  his  mistake,  but  also  showed  him  that 
Sammis,  feeble  in  health,  shabby  and  impoverished,  was 
sufficiently  like  Barker  to  pass  for  him. 

^95 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


From  that  resemblance  his  idea  expanded  still 
further.  He  followed  Sammis  to  his  lodgings,  had  a 
conference  with  him,  and  told  him  he  had  work  in 
Philadelphia  which  he  wanted  Sammis  to  undertake. 
The  man,  down  to  his  last  dollar,  flattered  and  amazed 
at  his  good  fortune,  agreed  at  once.  Though  the  work 
had  not  developed,  it  was  necessary  for  Sammis  to  be 
on  the  ground  and  stay  there  awaiting  instructions. 
Money  was  given  him  for  proper  clothes  and  an  advance 
of  salary.  The  date  when  he  was  to  leave  would  be 
communicated  to  him  within  a  few  days.  It  would 
appear  that  Sammis  never  knew  his  benefactor's  real 
name,  but  accepted  the  luck  that  came  to  him  eagerly 
and  without  question.  In  Ms  case  the  chief  had  guessed 
right — he  was  a  "plant." 

From  this  point  the  plot  mushroomed  out  into  its 
full  dimensions.  Harland  and  Barker  were  of  a  size, 
small,  light  and  wiry,  both  men  had  gray  hair  and  dark 
eyes.  The  features  obliterated,  clothes,  personal 
papers  and  jewelry  would  be  the  only  means  of  identi- 
fication. The  back  office  with  its  one  egress  through 
the  other  rooms  was  selected  as  the  scene  of  the  crime. 
Barker's  body  could  be  lowered  from  the  cleat — tried 
and  tested — to  the  floor  below.  Through  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Ford  and  Miss  Whitehall,  Harland  was  fam- 
iliar with  the  hours  of  the  Azalea  Woods  Estates  people. 

296 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


They  would  be  gone  when  he  went  down,  entered  their 
office  with  the  pass  key  he  had  procured,  and  made  the 
change  of  clothing  with  his  victim.  His  own  disguise 
was  a  very  simple  matter.  Through  an  acquaintance 
with  actors  in  his  youth  he  had  learned  their  method 
of  building  up  the  nose  by  means  of  an  adhesive  paste — 
that  and  the  white  mustache  were  all  he  needed.  He 
took  one  chance  and  one  only — a  gambler's  risk — that 
the  body  might  not  be  sufficiently  crushed  to  escape 
recognition.     This  chance,  as  we  know,  went  his  way. 

Gone  thus  far  he  had  only  to  wait  his  opportunity. 
Against  that  he  bought  and  concealed  the  rope,  the 
blackjack  for  the  blow,  and  the  articles  for  his  own 
transformation — all  the  properties  of  the  grisly  drama 
he  was  about  to  stage. 

Meantime  his  scheme  to  win  Carol  was  working  out 
less  successfully  and  the  strain  was  wearing  on  him. 
On  January  fifteenth,  his  nerves  stretched  to  the  break- 
ing point,  he  went  to  her  determined  to  find  out  how 
she  stood  with  Barker.  Her  answer  satisfied  him.  He 
knew  her  to  be  truthful  and  when  she  told  him  she  had 
no  other  than  a  filial  affection  for  the  magnate  he 
believed  her.  The  information  she  gave  about  Barker's 
intention  of  helping  her,  of  having  plans  afoot  for 
her  future  welfare,  he  seized  upon  and  subsequently 
used. 

297 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


He  also,  in  that  interview,  learned  that  she  had  had  a 
phone  message  from  the  magnate  saying  he  was  coming 
to  her  office  that  afternoon  and  would  later  go  to  the 
floor  above  to  see  Mr.  Harland.  When  he  heard  this  he 
knew  that  his  time  had  come. 

From  her  he  went  straight  to  a  telephone  booth, 
called  up  Barker's  garage  and  gave  Heney  the  instruc- 
tions to  meet  him  that  night  and  take  him  to  the  Eliza- 
beth Depot.  That  done  he  returned  to  the  Black  Eagle 
Building,  saw  that  his  stenographer  and  clerk  were  dis- 
posed to  his  satisfaction,  and  made  ready  for  the  final 
event. 

The  quarrel  with  Barker  was  genuine.  The  head 
of  the  Copper  Pool  burst  into  accusations  of  treachery 
and  threatened  immediate  exposure.  Sitting  at  the  desk, 
engrossed  in  his  anger,  he  did  not  notice  Harland  slip 
behind  him.  One  blow  of  the  blackjack  delivered  below 
the  temple  resulted  in  death,  as  instantaneous  as  it  was 
noiseless.  Fastening  the  rope  about  the  body,  Harland 
swung  it  from  the  cleat  to  the  floor  below,  where  in  the 
darkness  it  would  have  been  invisible  at  a  distance  of 
ten  feet. 

He  then  passed  through  the  outer  offices  and  went 
downstairs.  He  must  have  missed  Carol  by  a  few 
seconds.  His  knock  being  unanswered,  he  let  himself 
in  with  his  pass  key,  and  walked  through  to  the  back 

^98 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


room.  Here  he  drew  in  the  body,  then  curtaining  the 
window,  turned  on  the  lights  and  effected  the  change  of 
clothes,  shaving  off  the  mustache,  and  looking  for  the 
scarf  pin  which  he  couldn't  find.  He  had  just  com- 
pleted this  when  Ford  entered — a  terrible  moment  for 
him. 

When  Ford  left  his  nerve  was  shaken  and  he  realized 
he  must  finish  the  job  at  once.  After  he  had  done  so 
he  went  back  to  the  private  office,  carefully  arranged  his 
own  disguise,  and  after  waiting  for  over  an  hour,  put 
on  Barker's  hat  and  coat  and  went  down  the  service 
stairs. 

He  met  no  person  or  obstacle,  skirted  the  back  of  the 
block  and  picked  up  Heney  at  the  place  designated.  At 
the  Elizabeth  Station  he  bought  a  ticket  to  Philadelphia, 
but  when  he  saw  his  chance,  crossed  the  lines  to  the 
Jersey  Central  platform  and  boarded  a  local  for  Jersey 
City,  from  which  by  a  devious  route  he  made  his  way 
to  Canada.  It  was  in  the  waiting-room  at  the  Jersey 
City  depot  that  he  removed  his  disguise. 

In  Toronto  he  sublet  a  small  apartment,  only  going 
out  at  night,  and  keeping  a  close  watch  on  the  develop- 
ments in  New  York  which  he  followed  through  the 
papers.  By  these  he  learned  that  everything  had 
worked  out  as  he  hoped,  that  the  crime  was  unsuspected, 
and  the  public  interest  centered  on  the  chase  for  Barker. 

^99 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


All  that  now  remained  to  complete  his  enterprise  was  to 
get  Carol. 

That  his  continued  success  must  have  given  him  an 
almost  insane  confidence  is  proved  by  the  way  he  went 
about  this  last  and  most  difficult  step.  Criminals  all 
slip  up  somewhere.  He  had  attended  to  the  details 
of  the  murder  with  amazing  skill  and  thoroughness.  It 
was  in  his  estimate  of  the  character  of  Carol  that  he 
showed  that  blind  spot  in  the  brain  they  all  have. 

The  only  way  to  explain  it  is  that  he  was  so  sure 
of  his  own  powers,  so  confident  that  she  was  heart  whole 
and  would  be  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  of  his 
enormous  wealth,  that  he  took  the  final  risk — sent  for 
her  in  Barker's  name.  Her  response  to  his  first  sum- 
mons encouraged  him.  When  she  didn't  come  he  had 
many  reasons  with  which  to  buoy  himself  up — fears, 
illness,  the  impossibility  of  leaving  her  mother. 

But  it  made  him  more  cautious  and  he  didn't  venture 
again  till  the  hue  and  cry  for  Barker  had  subsided  and 
he  had  made  a  move  to  the  last  port  of  call  on  the  St. 
Lawrence.  That  he  had  expected  to  take  her  by  storm, 
win  her  consent  and  leave  her  no  time  to  deliberate  was 
proved  by  the  fact  that  "Henry  Santley"  had  engaged 
accommodations  for  himself  and  "sister"  on  the 
Megantic,  sailing  from  Quebec  at  ten  the  next  morning. 

What  had  he  intended  to  say  to  her,  how  was  he  going 

soo 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


to  explain  ?  If  he  had  not  mentioned  it  in  his  statement 
we  never  would  have  known,  for  Carol  did  not  give  him 
time  to  tell.  The  story  was  simple  and  in  the  face  of 
her  supposed  ignorance  of  the  murder,  might  have  sat- 
isfied her. 

He  was  going  to  admit  his  duplicity  in  the  Copper 
Pool — his  excuse  being  he  had  done  it  for  her.  In  his 
last  interview  with  Barker  he  saw  that  discovery  was 
imminent,  and  decided  to  drop  out  of  sight.  When  he 
passed  through  his  own  office  he  was  on  his  way  out  of 
the  building,  descending  unseen  by  the  stairs,  and  going 
immediately  to  Canada.  When  he  read  in  the  papers 
of  the  suicide,  identified  as  Rollings  Harland,  no  one 
was  more  surprised  than  he  was. 

How  the  mistake  had  been  made  he  readily  guessed. 
Some  months  before  he  had  discharged  one  of  his  clerks 
for  intemperance.  The  man,  unable  to  get  another  job 
and  in  the  clutch  of  his  vice,  had  gone  to  the  dogs, 
applying  frequently  to  Harland  for  help.  The  lawyer, 
moved  to  pity,  had  given  this  in  the  form  of  clothing  and 
money.  On  the  afternoon  of  January  fifteenth  he  had 
visited  the  Harland  offices,  in  a  suit  of  Harland's 
clothes,  begging  for  money  and  threatening  suicide.  He 
was  sunk  to  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation,  for,  dur- 
ing a  few  moments  when  he  was  alone  in  the  private  of- 
fice, he  had  evidently  searched  among  his  employer's  pa- 

301 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


pers  and  taken  a  watch  and  chain  which  was  lying  on  the 
desk,  to  be  sent  to  a  jeweler's  for  repairs.  Startled  in 
his  hunt  among  the  papers  he  had  had  no  time  to  re- 
place them  and  had  put  them  in  his  pocket.  After  the 
man  had  gone  Harland  noticed  the  missing  documents 
and  jewelry  but  in  the  stress  of  his  own  affairs  paid  no 
attention  to  the  theft.  The  next  day  when  he  read  of 
the  suicide,  he  remembered  the  man's  threat  to  kill  him- 
self and  realized  he  had  done  it  later  that  afternoon. 
That  the  body,  crushed  beyond  recognition,  had  been 
identified  through  the  clothes,  papers  and  watch  as 
himself,  he  regarded  as  a  lucky  chance.  Without  his 
intervention  a  thing  had  occurred  which  forever  severed 
him  from  the  life  he  wished  to  be  done  with. 

Such  was  Harland's  crime  as  explained  in  Harland's 
statement.  How  we  talked  it  over !  How  we  mused  on 
the  slight  happening  that  had  brought  it  to  light — 
a  child  at  a  window!  Strange  and  wonderful!  The 
hotel  noises,  the  traffic  in  the  street,  faded  into  the 
silence  of  the  night  as  we  sat  there,  pondering,  speculat- 
ing, and  awed  too  by  this  modern  fall  of  Lucifer. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
MOLLY  ENDS  THE  STORY 

THEY  all  came  back  on  Wednesday  night,  late, 
in  the  small  hours.  I  had  a  wire  from  Bab- 
bitts— and  Gosh,  as  I  sat  up  waiting  for  him 
I  thought  I'd  die  right  there  on  my  own  parlor  car- 
pet! For,  of  course,  I  supposed  she'd  tell  them  what 
I'd  done  and  he  was  coming  straight  home  to  divorce 
me. 

First  off  when  he  came  in  I  was  afraid  to  move,  then, 
when  I  got  a  good  look  at  his  face,  I  saw  he  didn't 
know.  He  was  so  crazy  with  joy  and  triumph  he  didn't 
notice  how  I  acted — trembly  and  excited  about  the 
things  that  didn't  matter.  How  did  she  get  there— 
what  made  her  go — were  the  questions  I  was  keen  to 
have  answered.  Did  it  off  her  own  bat — recognized  the 
voice  on  the  phone — instinct — knew  all  along  something 
was  wrong — and  just  rushed  off  without  thinking  of 
anything.  She  was  a  tip-topper — wonderful  girl — 
seemed  almost  as  if  she  was  clairvoyant,  didn't  I  think 
so  ?  Yes,  I  did,  but  maybe  when  it  was  your  father  you 
felt  that  way,  and  I  sank  back  against  the  cushions  of 

303 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


the  davenport,  weak  in  the  knees  and  swallowing  down  a 
lump  in  my  throat  as  big  as  a  new  potato. 

The  next  day  I  had  a  letter  from  her  that  made  me 
sick — gratitude  bubbling  out  of  every  line — and  saying 
she'd  told  Jack  and  how  never,  as  long  as  either  of  them 
lived,  would  they  reveal  it  to  a  soul.  That  made  me 
sicker — the  two  of  them  down  on  their  bended  knees! 
I've  lied  in  ray  life,  and  though  it's  come  back  on  me 
like  a  bad  dream,  I've  been  able  to  bear  it.  But  having 
two  people  like  that  ready  to  worship  you  because  you 
did  something  that  you  didn't  do  would  take  the  spirit 
out  of  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

Then  came  the  great  excitement,  the  case  going  to 
the  public,  and  Babbitts'  getting  his  Big  Story.  It 
made  a  worse  uproar  than  the  suicide  and  disappear- 
ance, the  city  was  stunned  and  thrilled  and  everything 
else  it  could  be,  and  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  but  was 
reading  the  Dispatch  and  asking  you  if  you'd  ever 
heard  of  such  an  awful  thing  and  enjoying  every  word 
of  it.  Babbitts'  picture  was  In  all  the  papers — and  a 
raise y  well,  I  guess  so ! 

It  would  have  been  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life, 
but  who  can  be  proud  when  they're  full  up  with  nothing 
but  guilty  conscience?  Not  me,  anyway.  Even  when 
Babbitts  came  home  Friday  night  with  a  set  of  black 
lynx  furs,  carrying  them  himself  and  putting  them  on 

304 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


me,  I  felt  no  joy.  Can  you  understand  it — shaving  a 
secret  from  the  one  you  love  best,  and  not  knowing  if  he 
knew  that  secret  whether  he  wouldn't  drop  you  out  of 
his  arms  like  a  live  coal  and  you'd  see  the  love  dying 
from  his  face?  Oh,  it  was  awful.  I  had  to  turn  away 
from  him  to  the  mirror — getting  up  the  right  smile  for 
a  fur  set  when  a  rope  of  pearls  wouldn't  have  lifted  the 
misery  off  me. 

Sunday  Jack  asked  us  to  his  place  for  dinner — ^just 
us  two  and  Miss  Whitehall.  All  the  way  downtown 
Babbitts  was  wondering  why  it  was  only  Miss  Whitehall 
— sort  of  funny  he  didn't  include  Mr.  George,  who  was 
often  there,  and  even  the  old  man,  seeing  it  was  to  be  a 
dinner  of  the  Harland  case  outfit.  I  had  my  own  ideas 
on  the  subject,  and  they  made  me  limp,  sitting  small 
and  peaked  beside  Babbitts,  with  my  hands  damp  and 
clammy  in  my  new  white  gloves. 

It  was  a  swell  dinner,  the  finest  things  to  eat  I  ever 
had,  even  there.  Miss  Whitehall,  all  in  black  with  her 
neck  bare,  and  Jack  in  his  dress  suit,  were  such  a  grand 
pair  I'd  have  enjoyed  the  mere  sight  of  them,  only  for 
that  terrible  secret. 

It  wasn't  till  the  end  of  dinner — old  David  gone  off 
into  the  kitchen — that  the  thing  I'd  been  waiting  for 
came  out.  Jack's  face  told  me  it  was  coming — happi- 
ness and  pride  were  shining  from  it  like  a  light.    He'd 

305 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


asked  us  there — his  best  and  truest  friends — to  tell  us 
before  anyone  else,  that  he  and  Miss  Whitehall  were 
going  to  be  married. 

They  looked  across  the  table  at  each  other — a  beauti- 
ful beaming  look — and  Babbitts  with  his  mouth  open 
looked  at  them,  and  I  looked  down  at  my  plate  where 
the  ice  cream  was  melting  in  a  pink  pool.  Then  Jack 
poured  champagne  into  our  glasses  and  raising  them 
high  we  drank  their  healths,  and  then  clinked  the  rims 
together  and  laughed,  and  wished  them  joy.  It  ought 
to  have  been  perfectly  lovely  and  it  would  have  been  if 
that  fiendish  guilty  conscience  of  mine  could  only  have 
gone  to  sleep  for  a  few  minutes. 

And  then  came  the  awful  and  unexpected.  I  didn't 
think  he'd  dare  to  do  it  but  he  did.  Turning  to  me 
with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  and  his  face  so  kind  it  made 
me  melt  like  the  ice  cream.  Jack  said : 

"And  there's  going  to  be  another  health  drunk — 
Molly's.  Molly  Babbitts,  the  best  friend  that  any  man 
and  woman  ever  had,  the  person  who  did  the  biggest 
thing  in  the  whole  Harland  case." 

He  wasn't  going  to  tell — ^he  knew  enough  for  that, 
he  knew  that  Babbitts  wasn't  on,  but  he  wanted  me  to 
understand.  I  looked  at  their  faces.  Jack's  with  its 
grateful  message,  and  Carol's  saying  the  same,  and 
Babbitts'  red  with  pride  and  joy.     Then  I  couldn't 

306 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


bear  it.    Feeling  queer  and  weak,  I  sat  dumb,  not  touch- 
ing my  glass,  looking  at  the  plate. 

"Why,  MoUie,"  said  Babbitts  surprised,  "aren't  you 
going  to  answer?" 

"No,"  I  said  suddenly,  "not  till  I've  told  something 
first." 

I  guess  I  looked  about  as  cheerful  as  the  skeletons 
they  used  to  have  at  feasts  in  foreign  countries.  Any- 
way I  saw  them  all  amazed,  their  eyes  fixed  staring  on 
me.  I  stiffened  up  and  set  both  hands  hard  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  and  looked  at  Carol.  My  lips  were  so 
shaky  I  could  hardly  get  out  the  words : 

"You're  all  wrong — you've  made  a  mistake.  I  didn't 
do  it  for  you  the  way  you  think — I — I — "  I  turned 
to  Jack  and  the  tears  began  to  spill  out  of  my  eyes,  "I 
did  it  for  /im." 

"ilf^.?"  he  exclaimed. 

**Yes,  you.  We  swore  to  be  friends  once  and  that's 
what  I  am.  I  saw  you  were  going  to  tell  her.  I  thought 
it  would  ruin  you  and  I  knew  I  couldn't  stop  you — so — 
so — as  /  didn't  matter — I  did  it  myself  before  you 
could." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair  all  stirred  and  pale.  Carol, 
with  a  catch  of  her  breath,  said  my  name — just 
"Molly,"  nothing  more.  But  Babbitts,  who  didn't  know 
where  he  was  at,  cried  out  : 

307 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


"Did  what?    For  Heaven's  sake  what's  it  all  about?" 

Then  I  told  him — the  whole  thing — out  it  came  with 
tears  and  sobs — all  to  him,  every  word  of  it,  with  not  a 
voice  to  interrupt,  and  when  it  was  done,  down  went  my 
head  on  the  table  with  my  hair  in  the  ice  cream. 

Well,  what  do  you  think  happened?  Was  he  mad — 
did  he  say,  "You're  a  false,  deceitful  woman.  Begone  ?" 
Oh,  he  didn't — ^lie  didn't!  He  got  up  and  came  around 
the  table  and  Carol  and  Jack  slipped  away  somewhere 
and  left  us  alone. 

Afterward  in  the  parlor,  me  a  sight  with  my  nose 
red  and  the  ice  cream  only  half  out  of  my  hair,  we  talked 
it  all  out  and  they — Oh  well,  they  said  a  lot  of  things — 
I  can't  tell  you  what — too  many  and  sort  of  affecting. 
It  made  me  feel  awful  uncomfortable,  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  but  Babbitts  adored  it,  couldn't  get  enough  of 
it,  just  sat  there  nodding  like  the  Chinese  image  on  the 
mantelpiece,  while  those  two  fine  people  sat  and  threw 
bouquets  at  his  wife. 

On  the  way  up  the  street,  we  didn't  say  much,  walking 
close  together  hand  tucked  in  arm.  But  suddenly,  up 
under  one  of  those  big  arc  lights  in  Gramercy  Park,  he 
stopped  short,  and  looking  strange  and  solemn,  gave  me 
a  kiss,  a  good  loud  smack,  and  said,  sort  of  husky: 

"I  love  you  more  this  evening,  Morningdew,  than  I 
ever  did  since  the  first  day  I  met  you." 

808 


The  Black  Eagle  Mystery 


Well — that's  the  end.  Jack  and  Carol  are  going  to 
be  married  this  spring  and  go  to  Firehill.  Babbitts 
and  I  have  a  standing  invitation  down  there  for  every 
Sunday  and  all  summer  if  we  want.  There's  a  great 
lawsuit  started  to  prove  the  claims  of  Mrs.  Whitehall 
and  Carol  as  Johnston  Barker's  wife  and  child.  He 
died  without  a  will,  so  in  the  end  they'll  get  most  all 
he  left — piles  and  piles  of  money.  It's  in  the  Whitney 
office  and  last  time  I  saw  Mr.  Whitney  he  told  me  Carol 
would  some  day  be  one  of  the  richest  women  in  New 
York. 

It  won't  spoil  her — she's  not  that  kind — a  grand,  fine 
woman,  true  blue  every  inch  of  her.  I've  come  to  know 
her  well  and  I'm  satisfied  she's  just  the  girl  I  would 
have  chosen  for  Jack  Reddy.  Queer,  isn't  it,  the  way 
things  come  about.''  Here  was  I,  searching  for  a  wife 
for  him,  turning  them  all  down,  and  he  goes  and 
stumbles  on  the  only  one  in  the  country  I'd  think  good 
enough.  That's  the  way  it  is  with  life — when  it  looks 
most  like  a  muddle  it's  going  straightest.  It  sure  is 
sort  of  confusing — but  it's  a  good  old  world  after  all. 

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